I work a lot, I know I work a lot, and I get enough grief from my family and friends that the last place I need it is from some douche at the bar. Especially one that used the word plethora twice in one sentence. Twice. One sentence. And he said it with a pompous tone. Like I am supposed to ask for a definition or at the very least be impressed by his fancy word. Don’t people usually grow out of plethora? Doesn’t plethora usage have an age-ceiling of twenty?

Although I usually downplay my heavy schedule because it’s boring and makes me feel like a loser, it works as a nice scapegoat when uninteresting parties inquire about my free time –for example, guys who overuse plethora.  He was a friend of a friend, and after she asked how work went, I think he assumed my seventy-five-hour work-week was spent waiting tables and I was some uneducated, blonde twit who has never left Minnesota and was in dire need of his wealth of knowledge acquired from his thirty-some years.

The douche droned on about how I need to cut back and work less and enjoy life more; he told me that he used to work a lot and then realized that he was sacrificing too much of his life and it took away from important stuff. Important stuff like Guitar Hero. Which, apparently, is so important that he called in sick to work the past two days to fully devote himself to the wonder of the game.

“You’ve never played? Man, you’ve never lived. I have only been playing for a few weeks now, but man, I am addicted. I think I am going to show up at one of those amateur nights at a bar and be like, ‘Wait, how does this thing work again? What am I doing?’ and then just blow them away. Like completely. I just love doing shit like that. But you know, shit like that, that’s the important stuff … there’s a big ole world out there and you need to see it … like, hell, maybe even visit Paris.”

Did he expect me to play the fool, bat my big blue eyes innocently, and succumb to hero worship from his Guitar Hero skills?

Instead, I dryly said, “Yeah. I’ve been to Paris. Five times.”

Technically, I have only been four times, but it came out as five and screw it. It was enough to grant me a few minutes of his silence.

I work seventy-five hours a week, so I can afford to visit Paris. Each visit was self-funded. It’s called a job. It gets me money. Which buys stuff and, in general, comes in handy. I can take the grief from my friends and family because I know they worry and I know they wish they saw me more, but the last thing I need is for some douche to tell me about experiencing all the wonders of the world –one of them being Guitar Hero. But a plethora of thank-you’s for your plethora of wisdom.