Wouldn’t It Be Nice If…

Wouldn’t it be nice if… The worst five words in the English language, to be sure. I think these words at least fifteen times a day, all in relation to inane people or questions or situations that take a little more energy or time or soul than they should to deal with. After a great deal of thought, hoping to see the truth elsewhere, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll never be economically capable about making said five words go away forever.

Here’s the deal. Rich people can pay somebody else to sweat details. My job is sweating details for idiots, average Joes (read: people who can’t afford their own staff), which means that I repeat myself a lot until said idiots get what they should’ve understood all along. I try to do this respectfully, but often catch myself feeling not only superior for knowing how much better I obviously understand EVERYTHING than these poor stupid saps, but also inferior, as I make a lot less money than most of them. I, for instance, cannot currently afford a $10,000.00 lawn tractor with various attachments, nor a house on several acres for which I would need said piece of equipment. Not even if I PURPOUSFULLY let myself get as far behind on paying things as these folks regularly do.

To take it a step further past the people I help on a daily basis, I’m absolutely sure the Bush family doesn’t worry about financing lawn tractors, or even giving their gardeners the budget line to purchase or maintain them over time. They just lay around getting sloshed by the pool while reading, and tell the staff to “mow some other damned day!” They don’t worry about making a call to me, while cooking dinner, or budgeting time to go to the gym against the cleaning that they HAVE to get done tonight, or anything other than their leisure time and food. That’s all someone else’s problem. Someone else they pay to worry for them. I desperately need the cash for a Person To Worry For Me. Why? Well, first out of a sense of entitlement second to none, and second, because I worry so goddamned much over other people’s dumb shit that just once I’d like to not worry about mine too.

Hell, if I didn’t have to worry about hurting Orpheus’ feelings, I’d see if Barbara Bush was still on the market. Ivy League graduate or not, she’s a Bush, and therefore should be freakishly easy to control when fueled with enough bourbon. Though, I’d also end up giving myself cirrhosis dealing with the father-in-law… Never mind. I’d rather worry for myself, thanks!