in an exciting or adventurous way. Always in a boring, “let's play online video games,” kinda way. I have better things to do.
Like wash dogs.
Or listen to my roommate have absurd phone sex.
Sigh.
. . .
I wake up the next day and get dressed quickly. It seems like my morning lethargy the last couple of weeks have been getting worse, and I want to blame it on my age. If I don't get up quick enough, I'll pass out again and miss work.
“You’re only turning 26, Cassie,” Sara is a little too quick to point out. I swallow my over-cooked eggs and chug some water before getting one back at her.
“That’s four from thirty, I might as well be dead.” I walk over to the sink and start loading the dishwasher without a thought.
“Whatever,” Sara says. She can’t understand anyway. Two years my junior, she still thinks she has the world on a platter. Everything will fall into place, is what seems to be her motto. Of course, she still whines when a two-month long boyfriend falls out of the picture like they were going to grow old and die together.
Jesus, Cassie. I breathe and slow down. I’m nearly gouging scars into the plastic plates at the sink, my thoughts are racing so fast. I drop the dish and scrubber into the basin and fold my arms. I’m not usually so uptight, I don’t think. The neon glow of the microwave clock shakes me back to reality. I’m already late for my super important job.
I’m a dog groomer at a little salon a town over. I want to say it's for people who don’t have time to wash their pets, or treating their hunting dog to some luxury. But the reality is I wash poodles and labradors that probably get more physical affection from my brush than their owners’ hands. The dogs aren’t the bad part, it’s the customers. Their snootiness gets under my skin and gnaws at me. I always bite my words back, but it's draining.
I pack up the rest of my meager lunch and grab my coat. The drive isn’t very long, but with traffic the way it’s been, I’ll probably be an hour late at this point.
I hop in the car and stash my purse in the passenger footwell. The seats and dash are dirty, and I swear I just cleaned them.
. . .
I slip into the front door of the groomers without getting my coworker’s attention. A loud blonde woman is chastising her for scuffing her precious poodle’s nails. I manage to walk right by them both. Who even notices the nails on their dog anyway? Are they pulling their frail paws under a microscope to check for uniformity? Christ, I just got here and I’m already letting them get to me.
In the back, I slip my uniform on and hear Becky come in behind me.
“What’s your excuse this time?”
I turn and finish tying my apron, trying my best to adopt a sad expression. “I’m so sorry, Becky —.”
“Can it. I want to know why you’re late.”
I gulp and shake my head. “Sara took the last of the hot water.” I can’t believe what a bad excuse it is. Even if it wasn’t a lie, it wouldn't mean a thing. I want to slap myself in the face.
Becky shakes her head. “You’re going to have to start rehearsing, or getting a better book-of-excuses.”
I nod solemnly and I can feel my face burn with embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am.”
She snaps her fingers in front of my face, making me jump. “No ‘ma’am,’ you know I hate being called that. Makes me feel old...” I want to scream. You are old! You’re sixty-two! She relaxes and points me out of the break room. “Get to work already. Ms. Johnson’s poodles aren’t going to wash themselves.”
“I wish...”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I call back. I disappear into the front and wrangle a couple of poodles from Lizbeth, my co-worker. She's usually the one who has to deal with the customers, which I’m super thankful for. Just overhearing them going on and on about their dogs and lives is enough to make me vomit. Let alone having to actually nod and smile throughout the whole thing. It doesn’t
Like wash dogs.
Or listen to my roommate have absurd phone sex.
Sigh.
. . .
I wake up the next day and get dressed quickly. It seems like my morning lethargy the last couple of weeks have been getting worse, and I want to blame it on my age. If I don't get up quick enough, I'll pass out again and miss work.
“You’re only turning 26, Cassie,” Sara is a little too quick to point out. I swallow my over-cooked eggs and chug some water before getting one back at her.
“That’s four from thirty, I might as well be dead.” I walk over to the sink and start loading the dishwasher without a thought.
“Whatever,” Sara says. She can’t understand anyway. Two years my junior, she still thinks she has the world on a platter. Everything will fall into place, is what seems to be her motto. Of course, she still whines when a two-month long boyfriend falls out of the picture like they were going to grow old and die together.
Jesus, Cassie. I breathe and slow down. I’m nearly gouging scars into the plastic plates at the sink, my thoughts are racing so fast. I drop the dish and scrubber into the basin and fold my arms. I’m not usually so uptight, I don’t think. The neon glow of the microwave clock shakes me back to reality. I’m already late for my super important job.
I’m a dog groomer at a little salon a town over. I want to say it's for people who don’t have time to wash their pets, or treating their hunting dog to some luxury. But the reality is I wash poodles and labradors that probably get more physical affection from my brush than their owners’ hands. The dogs aren’t the bad part, it’s the customers. Their snootiness gets under my skin and gnaws at me. I always bite my words back, but it's draining.
I pack up the rest of my meager lunch and grab my coat. The drive isn’t very long, but with traffic the way it’s been, I’ll probably be an hour late at this point.
I hop in the car and stash my purse in the passenger footwell. The seats and dash are dirty, and I swear I just cleaned them.
. . .
I slip into the front door of the groomers without getting my coworker’s attention. A loud blonde woman is chastising her for scuffing her precious poodle’s nails. I manage to walk right by them both. Who even notices the nails on their dog anyway? Are they pulling their frail paws under a microscope to check for uniformity? Christ, I just got here and I’m already letting them get to me.
In the back, I slip my uniform on and hear Becky come in behind me.
“What’s your excuse this time?”
I turn and finish tying my apron, trying my best to adopt a sad expression. “I’m so sorry, Becky —.”
“Can it. I want to know why you’re late.”
I gulp and shake my head. “Sara took the last of the hot water.” I can’t believe what a bad excuse it is. Even if it wasn’t a lie, it wouldn't mean a thing. I want to slap myself in the face.
Becky shakes her head. “You’re going to have to start rehearsing, or getting a better book-of-excuses.”
I nod solemnly and I can feel my face burn with embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am.”
She snaps her fingers in front of my face, making me jump. “No ‘ma’am,’ you know I hate being called that. Makes me feel old...” I want to scream. You are old! You’re sixty-two! She relaxes and points me out of the break room. “Get to work already. Ms. Johnson’s poodles aren’t going to wash themselves.”
“I wish...”
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I call back. I disappear into the front and wrangle a couple of poodles from Lizbeth, my co-worker. She's usually the one who has to deal with the customers, which I’m super thankful for. Just overhearing them going on and on about their dogs and lives is enough to make me vomit. Let alone having to actually nod and smile throughout the whole thing. It doesn’t
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