I went to donate blood yesterday, and had an interesting conversation. It wasn’t interesting because of what was said; rather, it’s what wasn’t said that made it so interesting to me. I didn’t go to a hospital or a Red Cross, it was just a weekly blood drive at the creepy old Masonic lodge nearby. They never seem to have the same volunteer staff twice. Yesterday there was a thirtysomething lady taking my vitals before the bloodletting, and she decided to be chatty.
“So, you came in on your day off?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” I said. I usually don’t tell people what I do for a living unless they ask point blank — or I’m trying to be amusing and quirky. Whichever comes first.
“So what exactly do you do?” she asked. Maybe I’m just strange — okay, I am — but I actually don’t really like that question. It’s a matter of opinion as to whether that’s rude or invasive or not, but in such a horrid economy with so many jobless, it’s just kind of mean.
“I work in Hollywood,” I said evasively.
“Oh cool! What exactly do you do?”
“Entertainment.” She stared expectantly. Really? Are you going to ask for an address next, some references? I wish I was snipy enough to just say, “None of your damn business!”
“I work with kids in costume, take photos with them, entertain them,” I added reluctantly.
“Where exactly is this?”
“Um, around Hollywood Boulevard. Sometimes around the Chinese Theatre.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, suddenly cold. Oh, so you’ve heard of us. While she was cordial for the rest of my visit, I could almost literally see the veil come down between us, the I Have A Real Job And Real Responsibilities, You’re Just An Immature Dork attitude. I felt disappointed at first, but after a moment, I realized it was disappointment in her. How sad it must be to look down on so many people like that, to have to knock others down and see them as below you just to feel good about yourself. What a pathetic way to live.
Then Old Boyfriend called today. *shudder* Thankfully, I didn’t answer. I’ve had a lot of unavailables and strange numbers calling me lately, so if they’re not in my phone already, they talk to the voice mail. He did, repeating his message twice like I was old and hard of hearing. Eh. I’m sure he’ll harass me Friday or Saturday, whenever he works, and I can cut him off then, in person. Then block his number from his phone, now that it’s in my log. And a new resolution takes effect: never give out my number.
