With all that’s going on, and the massive backlog of things to write about, it’s this instead, anyway.
In the autumn of 1991, I had a part time job at the college I was attending: FIDM Los Angeles. $5/hr, unpacking new arrivals destined for review for the costume library.
It was without a doubt the best job I have ever been fortunate enough to have. I would have worked the terrible one I had before it and paid 50x as much instead, if I’d had to, for the same experiences.
It was in its second(?) year, then, and already outgrowing the sprawling vault behind the library counter at that time.
It’s a full-fledged, acknowledged-throughout-the-world museum now, and it legitimately deserves it.
I wish I recalled the name of the woman I worked under at the time. She wasn’t the librarian, but the director of the collection and — if I am remembering correctly — the head of the visual display department.
Her other designated minion was quite possibly the most stunningly beautiful man I have ever seen in the whole of my life, and we were quite the contrast. Luckily for me, he was also one of the most lovely people one could imagine; funny and universally friendly and the sort of positive person that’s such a joy to be around that you entirely forget about the first bit more often than you’d ever imagine you might. (Especially true if you’re a swoony and awkward 18-year-old girl at the time.)
(We will adopt the polite pretense that I’m not a swoony and awkward 47-year-old woman even now. If nothing else, I have at least refined my absurdity, letting it ferment in the dusty cellar of passing years.)