Lightly Roasted

Just don’t call her ’ma’am’

By Kathy Eliscu

Kathy Eliscu is a nurse and freelance writer who lives in Westbrook. She credits her way of looking at the light side of life to her mother, the late Marge Eliscu, whose “Coffee Break” humor column ran for two decades in the Maine Sunday Telegram.

It started with a job layoff, leading to that whole “reinventing oneself” thing, aka panic.

Due to injury, I couldn’t work full time any more. It was not from something fun, like the pre-holiday mall sale. One can prepare for that: helmet, shoulder pads, checkbook, mace. No, this was from an accident.

I had argued with my supervisor that a half-time work schedule would be manageable. Answer: no. I tried a sophisticated approach kicking and screaming. Nothing changed, though I’m guessing I gave him a chuckle on his way home. Probably shouldn’t have gotten down on bended knee and called him Your Honor.

So, at my age, I’m job hunting. Please it’s OK, an excuse to eat out. Until the credit card statement arrives. My husband Ted is very (pardon the word) supportive when I’m, well who’s going to want a washed-up “Sweetheart,” Ted interrupts, “you really need to change that thinking...” Ah. See?

“ and pass me the remote?” I’m not going to lie to you. Job loss feels bad. Last time I felt this bad was at 14, when a “professional” saleswoman suggested I really didn’t need a training bra yet.

But with the same fighter instinct I muster when shouting at the TV during “Jeopardy,” I am beginning to face the challenge and get busy.

Job hunting is a peculiar odyssey. One day it takes me to the Very Cool salad place. People everywhere are using laptops. I glance at my fraying, spiral notebook. I’m hip, I think, as I slip it inside my newspaper.

After my low-fat lunch, I find myself back at the counter staring way too closely at a huge, I’m talking gigantic, fresh chocolate cookie walnuts, chocolate chips, things too wonderful to mention, including 450 calories. Note to my doctor: MYOB.

During the next hour, I have many free coffee refills leading to an impressive burst of energy. It seems reasonable to network, easy for me because, you know, big mouth. I acquire 38 best friends, volunteer to babysit for 15, and birth coach two. But no job.

Not to worry. I’m contemplating my existence.

Frankly, it’s scary. I’m learning so much: 1. New job requirement: Must be home by 4 p.m. to watch Ellen.

2. There’s a direct relationship between Ted’s kindness and my desire to cook for him. I hate that.

3. I accept I’m not a kid anymore, as I compete with 25-year-olds. I accept my graying hair and aging face. But the next youngster who calls me “Ma’am” is going to be seriously hurt.

In difficult times, I become spiritual. No, I’m not going to Lourdes. And I won’t sit for hours in a bookstore café reading find-ridiculously glorious-jobs books. That concept is just sick. (Think the stress of starting again makes me a little grumpy? I think of it as getting in touch my Inner Tormenter.) And I’m not going to New York for a take-your-mind-off-it shopping spree with my sister. I’m still paying for the last one. No, this is truly a spiritual new beginning, a giving in. Turning to forces of the universe, I trust they will put me right where I need to be. Back on bended knee, praying.

Without the kicking and screaming.