When I grow up . . .

I finally have decided what I want to be when I grow up.
After much deliberation, and trial and error that led me down some wrong paths, I am convinced I have found my way.
I get excited just imagining this perfect career. I’m all a-twitter inside—a huge silly grin on my face as if I’ve just been chosen for the all-star dodgeball team.
This career will erase all my bad employee experiences; even softens the wounds of having been self-employed for most of adulthood. I’m not sure what the pay will be, but it certainly can’t be any less than my income as a writer.
I’m pretty sure the guy picking up beer bottles and cans off the side of the road is financially more fluid than I.
Though I had considered astronaut, veterinarian, and super-hero at one point in my life as good options, this new idea comes out on top. I’ve just exhaled dramatically, like I’ve finally arrived.
Okay, brace yourself. Are you sitting down? I shall be a living, breathing mannequin for a very specific store. IKEA. I’ll say it again, IKEA.
I can feel your excitement. “Why didn’t I think of that?” I can almost hear you.
Some ideas are snapped up. I could have thought of Velcro, for instance. Many a time I got caught with burdocks in my hair; that is Velcro in its purest state. I snoozed on that idea, but not this time.
There is no IKEA in Nova Scotia. Madness really. Two in Montreal. That’s the closest, so commuting is out of the question.
It looks like I will have to work full-time. No 40 hours for me; 24-7 it is. I think I’ll draft a proposal to the Swedish geniuses, or is it genii. I’m never convinced which is the more accurate, though both are in common use (well, as common as more than one genius tends to be).
This proposal will begin in standard form.
Dear Anna Crona, IKEA Marketing Director.
She sounds almost literary, like Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. Perhaps they are distant relatives, names shifted for ease of pronunciation, as was the tendency in Tolstoy’s day for hiding ethnic backgrounds.
Not that I am of Tolstoy’s ilk or position, but this really could be considered a sign; like a bolt of lightning to say I’m on the right track. I am very excited.
Back to my draft proposal.
I would highlight my great love and almost eccentric passion for all things IKEA. I especially love their baskets and glasses. Even I can’t break an IKEA glass and that is saying something.
Frames. Boxes. There is no end of my IKEA likes.
Here is what I propose. I would just move around the store from one department to another. For example, I could be found putting magazines away in interesting places in the living room ensemble.
I could lie in a different bed each evening and as the customers stroll around, they would be amazed by my obvious comfort. I could sleep-in so the morning crowd could see me in action.
I see a lot of hands on chests in superfluous envy.
I would sit at a desk with just the right amount of light, penning the next great Canadian novel. I would be in the kitchen putting my knives away on the magnetic bar, opening drawers with ease and putting to use all the handy gizmos.
Luckily, there is no real bathroom section so I wouldn’t be caught in awkward circumstances.
Oh, it’s going to be wonderful. What an end to my illustrious career that started out at the Fort Frances Clinic alphabetically sorting the NCR print-outs when medical claims first went to computer-generated forms.
The hours I put around a ping-pong table in the back room. All for 50 cents an hour. My dad was generous to a fault. But it fine-tuned my skills and I don’t even have to sing the ABC song now to get the alphabet right.
And the best part: I can show up for work with no assembly required. Not one single allen key is needed in my design.
Now you’ll have to excuse me while I think of an appropriate uniform for work.