I’m Stressed About One Day Maybe Having to be a Construction Worker

I have two kids, a loving husband, everything I’ve ever wanted. And yet, I toss and turn at night, unable to escape the thought that one day I might have to be a construction worker.  

I wake up and make coffee for my husband who is lying peacefully asleep, unaware that when I’m scooping the coffee into the coffee filter I imagine the spoon is a forklift, the coffee is dirt, and the filter is the discard pile that we will need after inserting the pipes into the ground- my breath quickens, my vision narrows, I feel dizzy. What are those pipes even for?! I stop myself from throwing up.

My husband comes up behind me and massages my shoulders. It’s sweet, but this is a hard hat zone. Neither of us have hard hats. I resent him for this. I’m drifting again. I grab the oven and try to ground myself to reality. “There are no ovens on construction sites,” I think. “What are you thinking about?” he whispers. He can’t know. “Our kids,” I say, “both of them, the girl one and the boy one.” He buys it.  

My two kids skip down the stairs, chipper as ever. They are growing up so fast. Soon they will be off to college, hitting the highw--ahh. I would HATE to build a highway. How the hell would I even start. I pass them their backpacks and get out a somewhat convincing “have a good day at school”.

I put on my black flats -these open toes would not last a day out there on site. I slip on my thin trench-coat - I don’t want to wear the orange reflective vest ! It would look terrible! I could cry. “You don’t have to” I say to myself in the mirror. “You don’t have to wear an orange reflective vest. You don’t.” I’m running late.

“Morning,” I say to my colleagues. “Morning! Did you get some sleep last night?” “Slept like a baby,” I respond, a stupid baby who would make a terrible construction worker and destroy the city.

I am called into room C3. A routine operation. I take the scalpel to the numbed chest of the patient. Open heart surgery. It’s a human. It’s a heart, I remind myself. It’s not a pit of dirt. It’s not a septic tank. It’s not a standard sized, industrial septic tank. I’m not a construction worker. I stitch him up quickly and step outside, I need air. I puke everywhere. TGIF.