A Look on the Lighter Side: Some jobs are for the birds

Judy Epstein

Now that both of my boys are safely ensconced in their respective colleges, I have finally advanced to the box on the chart labeled “empty nest.” 

In the bird world, from what I can see, the empty nest is abandoned by the parents, as well; but we are not as smart as birds, and so we stay on. 

People keep asking me, “How does it feel?”  It feels quiet.  Too quiet. 

For the past 21 years, quiet was something ominous — the precursor to finding flour all over the kitchen, or bath toys floating in the toilet bowl; to finding a little boy trussed up like a roasting chicken, connected by rubber bands to the dining-room table.  

Even when they were at sleep-away camp for the entire summer, there would be phone calls that ended, “How soon can you get here?” (A broken arm.) Never a dull moment. 

Now, I have days full of nothing but dull moments!  Or at least, moments that are only as interesting as I, myself, can make them.  What a burden.

There are some small benefits. Things stay where you put them… which is good when it’s the book you were reading, the TV remote, or your notes for next week’s column.  Not so good when it’s the trash can, empty but still at the curb 24 hours later, or heavy groceries in the trunk of the car.  I buy way too many groceries for a family of two. 

At last, I am free to resume being whoever I was when parenthood intervened…or become someone new.  But who?  

I am doing career research, now, the same way everyone else does:  by watching TV.  I could try being a policewoman, like on “Rizzoli & Isles” or “Blue Bloods;” I’ve got the shouting-at-people down pat, and I’m sure I could learn to fire a gun — but it seems to involve way too much running. 

What else do we watch?

Well, there’s PBS’s “Call the Midwife” — except no, they ride bicycles, something I could probably do better if my bicycle hadn’t been chained, for the past 20 years, to a pipe in the garage. 

That leaves me with….Zombie.  I’ve got the gait for the job already, a sort of shambling shuffle, accompanied by incoherent groans.  I know this from comments made by my son, while I was trying to keep up with him at Roosevelt Field, store after store.  

Of course Zombies wouldn’t care when one of their bags-full of clothing set off the theft-prevention alarm; they’d never go back two stores to get the plastic bolt taken off the cargo shorts, they would just shed that bag, along with the arm that was entangled in it.

I am forced to consider the only remaining career not requiring graduate degrees:  namely, international spy. 

I’ve already got the outfit, because somewhere during the shopping frenzy, I picked up  a sleek, black, spandex outfit that, miraculously, fits. So I’m all set. 

“There are just a few little niggling details to straighten out first.”  That’s my mate speaking, the bird with whom I share this otherwise-empty nest. 

“Really? Details? Like what?” 

“Well, your alias, for one thing.  Remember that ugly scene last June, checking into that hotel for our anniversary?  You forgot which last name you used, and we almost got turned away.”

“What’s your point?

“Just that a spy should probably remember what name she’s using, when she travels.” 

“OK, so that’s one tiny little thing I’m not good at.”  

“Also, you can’t remember your passwords — to anything.  Spies have to use, and break into, all sorts of classified devices; you can barely unlock your own phone!” 

“That’s not fair.  I didn’t realize it was upside down, so of course it didn’t work!  Anyway, passwords are just stupid.  All they do is keep out the rightful owner, because any criminal can probably break them in nothing flat.”

“So we’ll cross ‘criminal’ off your list?”

“Naturally; that isn’t my style.” 

“And remember what happened at that networking event? You met somebody and couldn’t remember where you knew her from?”  

“Yes — but she couldn’t remember either.”

“What if you were on the run from the KGB and couldn’t remember if someone was a friend or a foe?  It could get you killed.”

“Well, sure, but how often does that happen?”

“Only once.” 

Oh.  So maybe I couldn’t be an international spy, either. 

Sure hope I come up with some more ideas before the next tuition bill comes due!

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