The Ugliness of Her Job

She wanted to be an exotic dancer, but she was a receptionist. Other receptionists wanted to be an admin assistant. She was not one of those; she wanted a stripper pole. She was envisioning herself in a sparkly tutu, sans ruffle. Her boss had apparently asked her something a couple of times. She looked at her prissy face wearing its prissy clothes. This office was ugly; she fit in well. She was ridiculously demanding Sure, she agreed. She always agreed. She needed this ugly job. If exotic dancing did not work out, she would be a gypsy wagon designer. She loved them, and she had the wardrobe for it at her house. Not here where she had to wear a confining jail sentence of a suit. And heels which she despised. But it brought in the potato chip money. The boss was calling her again. Did she expect her to go in there? She sighed. Same old routine. Call and I come.