My Other Jobs

A few weeks ago, I was at teacher training. In the midst of Completely Paying Attention and Being 100% on Task, my good buddy and fellow teacher said this to me:

                “If you weren’t Rebecca the Teacher, what would you be? I always wonder what people’s jobs would be if they weren’t what they are.”

Of course, this is a fascinating query, leading to all manner of contemplation. Being the dynamic individual that I am, it was a struggle to narrow my alternative occupations down to these three:

Deranged But Kindly Despot of Some Small Tropical Island Country:

 I feel like I would be a great one. We would have to have some bizarre but profitable export, though. That’s square one. Did you know that Lichtenstein’s primary export is postage stamps? Or at least it was when I was in high school and my team represented Lichtenstein at Model UN. I rocked those lederhosen.

After I die, they would find a stupid amount of some item hoarded in my palace. With most dictators it is something that makes sense: jewels or porn or Hennessey. The person narrating the PBS documentary about MY dynasty would have to utter the words, “Over 500 tons of imported pinecones were found in the catacombs under the palace.” And no one wants to say that. At least not until one’s career is pretty established.

I’m also looking forward to scandalously diverting people’s hard-earned tax dollars to my own private projects, like breeding hitherto mythical creatures into reality. Unicorns and such. It would go like this:

                “Well, did the horse try taking the narwhal out to dinner first? Come on, people!”

I don’t think I’d have to change my personality very dramatically to cultivate the “deranged” part of this job description. Plus, I can think of no better way to spend an afternoon than lounging on my throne, shouting, “Phil Collins ruined Genesis!” and, “Scalp wounds bleed a lot!” while my office staff try to avoid eye contact and plan a coup d’état.

Old-Timey Pirate Ship Captain:

Now, modern-day pirates are terrifying, and the product of a lack of economic opportunity.

I’m talking about the sexy, ruffle-shirted, “yar!”-uttering persons of legend. I could sail the wild seas with my crew of misfits, doing strange and upsetting things in international waters and generally causing trouble. We could sidle up to cruise ships and lay waste to their buffets. Steal the old ladies’ old lady jewelry and slap their old lady rumps. You know: piratey things.

Although, I have to admit, the best part of being a pirate would be getting to say “poop deck”. Right?

Proprietor of a Strip Club:

Let me explain. This isn’t just your ordinary strip club. I would employ people like me: ladies who really should know better. Moms and accountants and librarians who want to unleash their wild side on stage. Women with stretch marks, tan lines from mowing the lawn, and the kind of arm muscles you get from carrying small children around. Women who may doggedly refuse to wear high heels or acknowledge that Yellow Submarine is NOT a valid stripper anthem.

Champagne room treatment would include straightening your collar, tying your shoes, asking if you’re hungry, applying band-aids. Which could totally work for you if your mind is dirty enough.

I would call it The Tarnished Dime Piece.