I recently emerged from semi-retirement into a pretty demanding new job. It was a surprise move, but after a blissful stint doing relatively little, it was time to re-engage. The therapist who lives in my head, yet still costs me a fortune, suggested I was too young to be throwing in the towel on a career that hadn’t reached its shelf life just yet. So back to work I went.
The fact that my doing so was ever a question automatically makes me a “Karen.” It screams entitlement. Full disclosure: Like any self-respecting Karen, I also drive a minivan and I am raising at least one son. Although I wear my hair dark and long, rather than blond and bobbed, I am not, by some miracle, divorced. I do, however, ask to speak to a manager on occasion — usually only when my salmon is overcooked.
Ug. Yes. I heard it again. Karen.
Apologies to women actually named Karen. I know some of you. You’re lovely. This sucks for you.
