My Job

In many ways, I have the best job in the world. Granted, the pay is poor, but I work as a barista in a coffee shop that also sells comic books. When business is slow, I get to read all of the comic books that I want. I know comic books are usually the purview of boys, but I love comic books. The gallantry of heroes, the darkness, the silliness, the drawing, I adore all of it. To me, it’s much nicer having a discussion about how “The Authority” changed comic book superheroes forever than my last job, where I got to discuss the proper industrial tubing width with customers.

I’d say I’m attractive. I’m not the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model type. I don’t have flowing blonde hair, and my breast cannot be used as a flotation device in case of an airplane water landing. I’m short but perky with cool glasses and a few tasteful tattoos. Men inside and outside of the shop compliment me on how I look.

Here’s where I have a problem with my job. To certain comic book store customers, a non-traditionally cute, perky barista in their favorite store that actually reads comic books is the ideal woman. I’m constantly fending off invitations to dinner, flowers, and expensive action hero gifts. Just because I like comic books doesn’t mean that I want to be with a man that does. I’m a woman. I prefer my men to be bad assed – tattooed, motorcycle riding, and with a list of sins that would require the crucifixion of seven Jesuses to atone for. Poorly dressed, meek comic book fans don’t do it for me, no matter how polite, nice, and generous they are.

Is it too much to ask to treat a woman like a person?