The gallery opening had those tiny crab puffs on silver trays and everyone holding wine glasses by the stem, pinkies out without realizing. I stood next to a sculpture made of welded scrap metal that looked like something I'd haul to the dump for $40, nodding while some guy in a cashmere blazer explained its "dialogue with industrial alienation." My hands still smelled like cardboard boxes and diesel, and I couldn't stop thinking about the $18 babysitter waiting at home.