I’m a person who has child still living at home and an elderly mom who needs my care. According to the experts, that makes me an official member of the Sandwich Generation—I’m caught between two levels of People to Worry About. I take this idea one more step and claim myself to be part of the Subway® sandwich generation.
What does that mean? It means I’m standing in a line, waiting to be served and pondering what I want. When my time for service comes up, I’m given a general choice. Do you want to be a paid employee or a stay at home wife/mom/caregiver? I’ll take the special of the day: a multi-meat, multi-level combo of the two.
Next, I must decide what kind of bread I want. Well, I guess I can live with the less-calorie version. I can settle for not making the kinds of salaries that many of my friends make.
Do you want that toasted? Yes, I do. I want some of my work time to be spent doing what I really love: creative writing. Stick that sandwich in the oven for a moment and let it turn golden brown.
Your choices in cheese are American, cheddar, provolone or Pepper Jack. Give me the spicy Jack…always. But you better throw on a slice of American as well. I’m part of the generation currently obsessed with How Bad can the Country Get Under Our Pale-Orange-Haired Leader?
I settle back and watch my sandwich get assembled, then after it’s toasted, I’m faced with an open- ended question: What do you want on that sandwich?
Hmmm, let me think: I want some Let-Us to reflect how I feel about being a woman. I think it’s only fair that females face the same challenges and rewards as males in the military and the corporate office. Besides, you know the whole world needs the fiber of feminity.
I’ll take some pickles. What’s life without a few bittersweet moments that add crunch and zest to our everyday routine?
Can you throw on some onions? They’ll make my breath stink like the air does in the summer in the Washington, D.C. area, but the taste of living close to a city might be worth it. I like the flavor of cultural choices.
Put on some salt and pepper to match my hair.
Slather that bread with a glob of white mayo to give it some extra zing. After all, I come from the Midwest, which is as white as it gets and where cooks don’t know how to put a dish together without a little Miracle Whip.
Ring it up and put it in a bag and charge me four bucks. Yes, I want some chips and soda with that. I’ll give the chips to my daughter in hopes she’ll wanna be a chip off the old block (okay, the puns are getting a little thin here). And I’ll give the soda to my dear ma to settle her tummy.
–Genilee Swope Parente
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