For me (Mimi), It all began the day I turned 18, and got approved for a $10,000 credit card. Amazing how much damage a little piece of plastic can do to the hopes and ambitions of a young girl. One day I was a small town girl from Indiana, wearing hand-me-downs and the latest sale items from Maurices, and the next I was living in North Carolina in a beach house coming home with eight bags of new clothing I had just purchased on my most recent shopping spree.
Nevermind that I couldn't afford to eat, we had it figured that if we all split one salad between four of us... not only could we fit into smaller clothes, but we could also afford these new clothes we were going to fit in to. This is where it started, the compulsive social climbing.
In those days we weren't serving food, we were slinging gasoline and snacks. This is where I met François, my social climbing partner. S&E #4, that was our home base. Maybe it was boredom, maybe it was a creative outlet, whatever the reason I can tell you with absolute certainty THIS is where the delusions began. In reality, we were just lowly gas station
attendants, but to our customers... my father owned the station. François and I were engaged, and my father (who had longed for a son he never got) preferred François over his own daughter, so my "fiancé" got all of the choice shifts while I was stuck working the graveyard (at 19 years old mind you). His plan was to turn the gas station chain over to François when we were married, and I was somewhat of an afterthought in all of this. Our customers ate our stories up; hook, line and sinker. They sympathized with me, and I milked it for all it was worth. There was one man who would bring me fresh shrimp and fish that he caught on his boat even though I was clueless as to how to gut a fish, and the shrimp sat in the freezer for months because they were still looking at me (when I say fresh, I mean FRESH).
Maybe the success of our initial forays into the world of delusions fed the flames of our dysfunction. I could blame our gas station customers for supporting our habits, but where does that really get you...
attendants, but to our customers... my father owned the station. François and I were engaged, and my father (who had longed for a son he never got) preferred François over his own daughter, so my "fiancé" got all of the choice shifts while I was stuck working the graveyard (at 19 years old mind you). His plan was to turn the gas station chain over to François when we were married, and I was somewhat of an afterthought in all of this. Our customers ate our stories up; hook, line and sinker. They sympathized with me, and I milked it for all it was worth. There was one man who would bring me fresh shrimp and fish that he caught on his boat even though I was clueless as to how to gut a fish, and the shrimp sat in the freezer for months because they were still looking at me (when I say fresh, I mean FRESH). Maybe the success of our initial forays into the world of delusions fed the flames of our dysfunction. I could blame our gas station customers for supporting our habits, but where does that really get you...
No comments:
Post a Comment