He smiled when I told him I worked at Alliance Traffic.
Like—smirked. He looked at me and said, “Wait, like on the road?” With cones and signs?
I nodded. Yes, I’m on the field team.”
He chuckled. “That’s cute.”
Cute. I moved barriers twice my size on the worksite in sideways rain. With my hair knotted in a hard helmet and perspiration freezing on my neck, I patched asphalt at 3 a.m. No doubt—cute.
He didn’t inquire about my route. Maybe I worked extra shifts until my cousin’s crew needed me. Perhaps I memorized the MUTCD and aced my exams. I’ve had to prove myself many times since I don’t “look like” I belong.
My hair is blonde. I assume I should grin, snap photographs in attractive boots, and not work the night shift with five males twice my age. But I do.
We went to drink. First date. I didn’t intend to get deep.
After he joked about “little flag girls” and “pretty faces in safety vests,” I snapped. I regarded my beer. Was silent at first.
I looked him in the eye and said something I’ve never uttered on a first date.
I knew this night would be intriguing when his expression altered.
I laid my drink down and added, “I got into traffic work four years ago after an accident. The signage were misaligned in a construction zone.”
His look alternated between surprise and fascination. No more smirk. “Oh,” he whispered.
My heart raced. I seldom mentioned that night. Not with strangers, old acquaintances, or my parents. I inhaled and spoke. It was late. After working at the restaurant, I drove home. I was exhausted, yet I didn’t use my phone. The building site was poorly lighted, and wind blew several cones over. I spun out after swerving to escape a huge piece of debris.”
The imaginary shoulder pain stopped me. “I hit the concrete barrier so hard the doctors thought I would be permanently injured. After surgeries, treatment, and perseverance, I recovered.”
He silently watched me. The smugness was gone from his expression. He seemed regretful, but not pityful. Perhaps he regretted calling my profession ‘cute.’
Finally leaning forward, he said, “And that’s why you do this work?”
I shrugged. Pretty much. I understood site safety was crucial. To look out for fatigued or unskilled night drivers returning home. I don’t want anybody to experience my fate. It’s not the ‘whole truth,’ but a large part of it.”
He played with his napkin. “Wow. I’m sorry. I was jerky.”
Despite being stung, I laughed slightly. “Thanks for confessing. Not simple labor, right? We do more than merely hold a sign, contrary to popular belief.
He nodded. “I guess I never really considered it.”
Silence fell. The pub was busy—glasses clinking, music playing, and a group of pals cheering on a TV game. I pondered whether I should have let the occasion pass without mentioning anything. Also, I felt weight lifting. Just like I spoke what needed to be said.
Cleared his throat. Is that why you read all those manuals and certifications?
I nodded and sipped my drink slowly. “Yeah. One man from my cousin’s group taught me everything. His name is Dale. I consider him my big brother; he always supported me. He demanded I master the MUTCD. He had me practice yard sign installation until I could do it in my sleep. He advised me, ‘If you’re going do something, do it so brilliantly that nobody can challenge you.’ And here I am.”
His gaze dropped to the table. I feel ridiculous laughing. No clue that was in your story.”
Shrugging, I tried not to think about it. Look, we all carry our own crap. People infer what they want from looks. It happens.”
He was about to apologize again, then sighed. “Thanks for telling me. I appreciate it despite not deserving it.”
I briefly empathized with him. He could have seemed haughty because he was anxious or attempting to be amusing. Maybe I made some assumptions about him. “Enough about me,” I replied. Your story?
He paused. He grabbed a fry from our dish and twirled it. “I work in finance. I worked for my dad’s brokerage after graduation. Everyone considered it the obvious choice. It may not be what I want.”
Arched my eyebrows. “Yeah?”
He nodded uncertainly. “It was forced on me. Numbers are my thing, but I wonder if I’m living someone else’s fantasy every day. Perhaps I envy those doing something real.”
My fury eased as I contemplated that. “Never too late. You realize life’s short? Maybe try something else.”
He half-smiled. Yeah. Maybe.”
We chatted longer, sharing our families, anxieties, and odd hopes. Conversation was shockingly honest. He said he made jokes when he was out of his depth, which justified his dismissal of my position. I informed him about my problems to be taken seriously as a woman in a male-dominated sector.
I relaxed when the waiter handed our bill. He apologized again and offered to pay. I demanded division. I wanted to show him I wasn’t seeking for sympathy or special treatment. I can handle myself at work and at bars.
The chilly downtown night air felt nice as we left. He stopped me on the sidewalk and said, “So… you want to repeat this?
I paused, trying to decide whether I felt a connection or was simply pleased the night had turned polite. “Could be,” I said. I’ll think about it.”
I hadn’t seen him grin that earnestly all night. “That’s fair.”
We parted with a courteous nod. I breathed deeply after seeing him go into the throng. I walked home instead of taking the bus. Clear night, city lights reminded me how lively everything seemed.
I resumed work a few days later. Six a.m. shift, waterfront lane closure supervisor. Dale, my colleague, whistled at me across the lot. “Rena, you good over there?”
Upvoted him. «Just completing these signs»
I recalled the talk from that night as I pounded the final sign. How I never informed a first date about my accident. How that one admission changed everything. My amazement at telling him lingered. However, I knew I was done concealing this portion of my life. It made me who I am, therefore I shouldn’t be embarrassed of it or my profession.
A vehicle appeared at the closure, and the driver looked at me. I waved and Dale said it was okay to go. Work was going well. No significant surprises or storms. My team and I coordinated. Just briefly, I felt proud. Proud to be here and know what I was doing. Proud that I converted a traumatic history into a meaningful work.
And then it clicked. This work required more than signs, cones, and automobile passes. It was about protecting people and letting them go home without the nightmares I’d experienced. I woke up before morning with tight muscles and a dozen bruises every week because of that awareness. It was worthwhile.
Sometimes life throws you into circumstances you didn’t pick, but they give you a passion and drive you didn’t expect. We can’t overnight modify others’ assumptions. However, we may be and act powerful. First impressions may deceive both parties, as my date showed me. Open up a bit and we may discover common ground even if things start out tight or unpleasant.
I may see him again. Maybe not. That little period taught me that honesty and vulnerability can turn a nasty discussion into something important.
If you feel criticized for your job or who you are, remember that your narrative matters. Our lives might take us in unexpected directions, and your tale may influence someone’s worldview.
Thanks for reading. If this story touched you, share it or like this post. Let’s remember that our struggles and judgments make us resilient, hardworking individuals worth cheering for.
