I’m not able to talk about money. I prefer to spend it. My very first “real” interview after arriving in the States, I practically hushed my interviewer when she mentioned money. As if she was insulting me by even bringing it up. As if money muddied the real reason I wanted the job—my passion for answering phones. Lucky for me she was a mother, and after she hired me she took me aside and gave me a good clip in the ear.
It might be my Irish upbringing. We have no grace when it comes to money. No sense either. An offer to pay for your own pint/cup of tea in Ireland will be most violently met with “would you put that money away and don’t be embarrassing me." You’re cheap if you don’t fight so you must force a crisp twenty at your friend and at the cashier (who will roll her eyes at this much rehearsed scene):
Act I. I insist, you say. No, no, no, my treat, says your friend, Moneybags. Really now, I’ve got it, you say, throwing him the white of your eye. Two bony elbows hold you at bay while Moneybags makes a quick show of putting his ten in the cashier’s hand and closing her pudgy fingers over it. He has paid for your tea.
Act II. You ball up your twenty, viciously stuff it in his trouser pocket, and say “you’re an awful man.” With a disgusted shake of the head, he’ll dig out the offensive ball of money, slap it into your inside pocket, and zip up your jacket for emphasis. One final surge to pay, punctuated with a downright refusal to drink, and he’ll take your money. Now you can get back to talking about global warming.
I work hard for the money. A few weeks ago I decided to approach my boss, after a disappointing end-of-year increase. This was truly a first for me. I’ve never questioned more money before, just taken it and run. But it’s also the first year I’ve realized they’re not doing me a favor by letting me show up every day. I’ve always felt somewhat undeserving, because, well, I’m a mom, in a predominantly non-mom environment. I don’t wear white socks and sneakers but I do work nine to five. My boozing involves my husband, not my boss. My schmoozing is for my kids’ coaches and teachers, the real power players in my life. But the beauty of coming into my thirties is that I’ve also come to my senses. I know my worth. I’ve got my foot to the pedal nine to five. And they’re lucky to have me.
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