Work Husbands
When I Was Karen
I wouldn’t have
a work husband at all,
if I were a girl.
I would be just like
all these other invisible
40 year old women
in this office,
if I were a girl.
The Queen of Average,
trying so hard to disappear
into the walls. Sitting in my cube,
break at 10, lunch at 12:30,
break at 2:30, home at 4:30.
Speaking to absolutely no one.
Just another 43 year old
ginger woman: dull hair, no hips,
spindly gams. I don’t know
what makes a face pretty,
but I’m pretty sure I’m not.
Going in and out of nothing
returning to nowhere.
Until the end.
If I were a girl.
I wish I could tell you that.
But instead we are both
prisoners inside the solitary
confinement of our own senses.
The Bowdoin Orient,
student newspaper of America’s
Number One Liberal Arts College,
informed me that if I feel ugly or
unattractive, I should take a selfie.
“Your friends will remind you
how great looking you are!”
they say, so I did.
I wonder if they know
it’s different for boys.
