Just a Small Town Girl

My fridge thrusts this note at me daily.

I tell it, "I know, I know," and carry on, yanking the door open and fetching out whatever tidbit has brought me back to the rather judgemental appliance.

Every time I take something out, this little reminder points out that whatever resources I do have, whether they be in the icebox or in my bank, are dwindling. Giving the fridge a stern look doesn't change its face or minimize the thought, but I keep trying.

Stern looks rarely change anything, but I'm good at them. Usually, the look is directed at myself. Unfortunately, I can't see it so I just feel it creep inward, scorning and shaming as it goes. Fortunately, I'm also very good at shrugging my own accusations off as the overly harsh and non-helpful things that they are. There's balance in that somewhere.

It's funny, really, having grown up in this town that seems to pride itself in harsh judgement, that I would feel the need to further belittle myself. Believe me, the town does plenty of weighing by factors I don't believe are all that useful. I really don't need to add to that.

The last couple of years has been a lesson in discomfort. I learned that my little town's hierarchy classifies Divorced Woman as lower than Just Plain Mean Person and Falsely Proud Guy. That seems completely backwards to me. I've also learned that by becoming Divorced Woman (with no partner in sight, I might add), I have automatically fallen into the category that gets cold shoulders, arched eyebrows and chilly smiles from a good portion of women around me. I am now suspect. Unclean, maybe? I'm not sure. I haven't helped my situation as I refuse to discuss my private circumstances, thereby feeding the machine that produces sympathy. Minus a select few folks, the people who "know" about my divorce have come to their conclusions fully without my input. I've heard enough now to know that the other party involved in this had a pretty good run with the sympathy machine. I learned that I'm a whore and a slut and our kid might not even be his.

I am? He might not? Seriously? Wow. Glad someone told me all this. Glad multiple people over the course of a couple of years have done me a favour by telling me what they've heard. "You know, it's what I heard." Must be true, then. Good to know. I tell you what; it's really difficult to be a slut when you are faithfully married... which I was. It's also difficult to conceive a child that doesn't belong to your husband when he's the only man you've been with in years. Daaaaamn, I'm talented AND wicked! Also magical. I wonder if there's employment opportunities in this?

I try and tell that note on the fridge that in my insistence on remaining honourable (to myself) by keeping my private life (past and present) private has helped to burn bridges I never even knew were there. I have enemies in people I've never met. I try and explain that it is really difficult to get a job when places you apply to are owned by friends of friends of the wronged person. The fridge doesn't care. It just wants to know how I'm going to provide for it.

I wish I knew.

Meanwhile, I am getting really familiar with Job Service. And one of these days, I'll be able to take that note off my fridge... even if it is to cover it up with a Burger King uniform.

Do you want fries with that?