Here's a story:

When I was in high school I worked at a CVS pharmacy as a checkout girl. That wasn't the official title -- "checkout girl" -- but I forget the official title. "Sales associate?" That's not right, but, whatever, it doesn't matter. My parents didn't give me an allowance after I turned "no-longer-a-child" and so I got a job at a CVS as a checkout girl.

Not that my parents weren't supportive parents, then (and still are. Hi, Dad). They sent me to a good school and they let me take piano lessons and flute lessons and cello lessons and they did all kinds of purely generous and thoughtful things that I did not deserve or probably appreciate. But they weren't about to hand me my own credit card and take me on shopping binges at the mall. And I had important things to buy when I was sixteen. Like red hair dye (mistake) and a Frappuccino every day until my metabolism caught up with me.

Anyway.

One day when I was behind the register, a couple girls from my high school came in and I had to ring them up and it was the worst thing ever. Girls at my high school worked at their uncle's law office or at a shop in Bethesda or at a daycare at their brother's elementary or at a Starbucks halfway between their house and school. And usually just during the summer. They worked somewhere that made sense, where they had perks like free coffee or a clothing discount or nepotism. They worked somewhere that sounded somewhat charming.

It wasn't charming to work at the CVS in Darnestown, MD.

Luckily, not many people lived in Darnestown, MD. My best friend lived in Darnestown, MD, but she had a weird affinity for the CVS I worked at and she used to come in all the time and that was okay. The time I rang up these other girls from my high school, it was not okay. They came up to the register and one of them said, "oh my God, EMILY? I didn't know you worked here! That is so cute!" And they all agreed, it was so cute. And I probably turned bright red and I rang them up as fast as possible and then I died. Just, died.

One of the girls was in my AP Bio class, and the next time I saw her, she brought it up, of course: "It's so funny that you work there." Okay. "No, because, like, everyone who works there is, like... like there's that weird old guy who looks like Doc from the Seven Dwarves." Bobby. "And then, there's like... you work there. It's so funny." Yep, don't know what to say to that. What do you possibly say to that?

I wasn't proud of working at CVS. I should've been. Screw 'em -- most of 'em had never had a real job in their life. They didn't cram for French Lit in the breakroom. They used their parents' credit cards to pay for their gas. They probably didn't know their Social Security numbers by heart.

But I didn't feel proud. I felt deeply ashamed. And shame wasn't an emotion that I felt a lot in my adolescence. Anxiety? Embarrassment? Sure. Not shame. I was too proud, usually, and too stubborn and too opinionated about most things, to feel shame. But at that moment -- "it's so funny" -- I felt truly shamed by those girls.

It's funny, because now it's completely the reverse. I feel so so happy to have a day job, and it's almost a source of pride that it's a job I actually like. I'm relieved that I don't have to stress about paying my rent, and I'm glad that I'm financially independent, after years in college when I wasn't.

I can't imagine being ashamed of... working? I'd probably be ashamed if I were a trust fund kid. I think I'd probably lie. Or, at least, I'd hedge. Because there would always be that one person that you probably only know on a passing-acquaintence level, at best, who'd say "your parents bought you an apartment in Chelsea? That's so cute. That's so funny."