I’ve always believed in past lives.
I’m sure in a past life I was royalty of some sort, because I adore being served. I cannot lie.
Many experiences have confirmed this. Besides the fact that deep purple is one of my most favorite colors, there was the time when an old flame took me to a Fuddruckers on our first date. “You mean.. (pause of disbelief) I... ( extra emphasis on I ) have to prepare my own burger?”. Oh the humanity!
Salad bars and buffets are a little less offensive to me, (just a little), but terribly inconvenient. I also won’t eat anything I have to peel, suck or crack. You see,
I love to be served.
This isn’t limited to eating.
Cleaning up after myself is a chore. Cleaning up after other people is the bane of existence in my thinking. Now I don’t find serving people in the literal sense (again back to food) that terrible if they really need the help. For instance, Granny needs the door opened or an arm to ensure she doesn't take a tumble. Uncle Donny uses a cane and it just makes sense not to have him fetch his own plate. It’s when serving is done to keep up appearances that makes me groan.
Now, I’ve been a good sport during this time. I’ve been humble, grateful, caring and positive, thinking of the silver lining and such. I have imagined books I might write to commemorate these days, (giving I survive) (and I hope I do) such as :
“How I’ve Learned to Love Picking up after my Family”, alternate title “ They're not crumbs they are Love Nuggets” another one I am pondering is “Living my Best Life: Slave to Domesticity” and finally, “My Vacuum Cleaner, My Friend”. But I’d be lying to myself to pursue such literary goals. I love being served.
I am not ashamed to say it. Oh I’ve done my share of “service” work but I don’t equate the two. Years in the 4-H Club, years of community theater and years of the Lions Club. That was all very admirable. However I cannot deny...
I love being served.
I also love being pampered. I like to indulge in spa time, manicures and pedicures, because the person who is pampering me is, (you guessed it) also serving me.
Oh how I love being served.
I daydream of being fanned with huge banana leaves while being fed milk duds. (grapes just aren’t my thing).
I love being served.
Having Alexa in my home to turn on and off my lights, inform me of the weather and turn my TV off as I’m dozing delights the deliciousness and my desire of being served. This I still have and relish.
You might judge me, “ how dare she write such an atrocity during this time of plague and panic!”, you might not care, you might secretly agree with me but cannot share because you have an “image” to keep up. Perhaps one of your past lives is saint, or martyr and you are particularly offended. Well to you I say, “good”. You have an image to keep up and I have mine. So while you’re up, dear sweet friend of mine, will you please bring me a cold drink? Because you know with every fantastic fiber of my being, I LOVE BEING SERVED.
Wash Hands, and until we are served again,