Some Things Never Change

"I'm going to be a trashman." Or so I proclaimed for years, every time I was asked the dreaded question – “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” I loved the alternately amused and bemused reactions of my inquisitors when faced with a little girl in ruffles proclaiming a passion for waste management. Not to mention the added satisfaction of watching my grandma make the "I'm totally mortified, but if I just purse my lips and smile, everyone will think I am the most wonderful and supportive grandmother ever" face (I’m still not sure whether it was the trash part or the man part that upset her most). Everyone would laugh. I had spunk, they said. At six, I couldn’t yet articulate that I was inexplicably drawn to the cacophony of churning glass against glass against metal, to the safety of a life lived largely within sturdy metal walls.

Apparently, some things never change. I'm still captivated by the world of sound. And, it seems, I still have spunk. Men tell me so with a difficult-to-interpret half-laugh, half-wink, hoping, I think, to see more. Older ladies tell me so with one eyebrow raised, hoping, I'm sure, to see less. And, truth be told, sometimes I still want to be a trash collector. There are days when I want nothing more than to make a noise the whole world can hear, nothing more than a large smelly container within which nobody can find me.