There's a Reason Why the Grass is Greener There

It's only been three weeks since I've gone back to work, and it's not a bad gig, as reception jobs go. I get free facials and massages, free acupuncture and chiropractic, and they give me a paycheck regularly. But I'm reverting to the 'grass-is-always-greener' daydream of escaping to a different job. It's always the same job I dream about. It's the job I feel I was meant to do but have never followed through with the two-years of schooling. It's the only job that I might possibly pick over being a Rock star.

I have secret yearnings to be a mortician.

I've asked Mt. Hood Community College to send me the information and registration packet twice over the last 20 years. The first time I balked, not at the thought of immersing myself in death to the tune of a couple thousand dollars, but I didn't want to take PE. It was just too soon after high school.

The second time, well--I don't know why I let it go. Probably money. I don't want debt, and I couldn't afford the tuition at the time, so after much fondling of the course description and envisioning myself surrounded by huge cannulae and bottles of formaldehyde, I continued living my dreary, but practical life in corporate America.

My mother was disgusted when I told her I was considering working in the funeral services field. "What is this sick fascination you have with death?" she asked.
I wondered if she might foot the tuition, so I considered my answer carefully.

"Mom, it's not so bad if you think of it along the lines of what a butcher does at the grocery. It's just handling meat in various stages of putrefication. And beautifying it with mortician-grade concealer."

I didn't mention anything about stitching the mouth closed. Mainly because I couldn't do it without a smile in my voice.

Just three weeks into the new job, and I get all pie-eyed and wistful every time I drive by a mortuary. Many of them are old homes, and most of them are furnished like homes. This appeals to my agoraphobic nature. If I could live and work in the same place, it would be one less place I'd have to psyche myself into walking out my door for.

All of the morticians I've talked to really like their jobs. It's quiet, it's sacred, it's medatative, and goes a long way in healing their own griefs, and fears about death.

The downside, I suppose, is always having to justify how rewarding your job is to strangers, without sounding too enthused to the point of appearing necrophilic.

I don't care what people would think about me. Let 'em cringe and make fake barfing noises. I'd be a happy undertaker who would finally stop dreaming of a better job.

And my makeup would be supplied in bulk.


Funerarily,

Cindy