First of all, dear readers, let me start by saying that I'm not sorry.
I am not-- I repeat-- not sorry that this blog went neglected and forgotten for a matter of months. It was, as a matter of fact, necessary. I had landed a job that was in my field. It was nowhere near glamorous, but it was a job, it got on my resume, and that was all that I needed from it... until I could find a better job because that particular employer was something to the effect of a megalomaniac, and, fittingly, during the Christmas season, I was getting paid less than Bob Cratchit. Don't worry, though. It all works out. For better; for worse? I am still trying to figure that one out.
Read on.
Far be it from me to complain about having a job in the first place. Immediately prior to receiving the phone call that eventually amounted to me being hired back into my field, I had been at an interview everyday for two straight weeks. I used the word "glamorous" in the first paragraph to describe my ideal work place. I like that term, but for the sake of aligning our ideas of a "glamorous" work place, let's read it under the light of a Midwestern Protestant work ethic. A glamorous work place does not involve a brightly colored vest. A glamorous day of work involves decision-making, some level of thinking, and sweet, beautiful, deadline-induced stress-- yes, stress, the nectar of life granted by God to help us forget all of our other problems. The only thing that can cure stress is a different kind of stress, and, happily, the kind of stress that one finds in a workday at least results in a steady paycheck. So, henceforth, that is my definition of a glamorous job. Glamour isn't glitter, eyeliner, and David Bowie. Glamour is hard work, stress, and a paycheck.
And, of course, not all of the jobs that I had been looking at prior to my hire were glamorous. Some, as a matter of fact, were not at all. Such was the position that I was in the midst of "interviewing for" on a fateful Thursday afternoon some months back. In Los Angeles, on any given day, thousands of vendors take to the street to sell the most useless crap in the universe. And I, my dear friends, was at the juncture of becoming one of those vendors. In the vernacular, that would be a door-to-door salesman. Yes, I-- even I, was entertaining the thought of peddling the most useless crap in the universe. "What kind of crap?" you ask? (Author's aside: After some menial research I think that may actually be the proper punctuation for the previous sentence) As aforementioned, "the most useless crap in the universe," I answer. We're talking discount massages, here.
On the bright side, I would not be the one who would have to give the massages. No one wants that. Rather, I would be the person barging into stores and trying to act charming until somebody would agree to purchase said massages. In my heart of hearts, I firmly believe that no one wants that, either.
But here I was, in Western Los Angeles, dressed in some garb that I really wish that I had reserved for a slightly more formal occasion (like cleaning toilets) and wandering the streets on a trial day. You get a whole day to figure out if this is right for you. I love that. "So how do you feel about wandering around for the rest of your days selling massages at a discount rate? No, don't answer right now, just-- just give it a try for an hour or twelve." So, what was I thinking?
Well, I firmly do believe that any work is an opportunity. Part of me, a small sliver of me, was actually enjoying it. I got to meet a potpourri of hoi poloi. Also, due to stories that I had read in Reminisce magazines that my Great Grandmother had given to my family, I have a respect for door-to-door salesmen. Imagine how disheveled and filthy the world would be if nobody was able to get Unbreakable Combs and Vacuums before 1960. Seriously, thank a door-to-door salesman.
So, since it was close enough to a sure thing, I'm sitting there thinking "let's forget about my enjoyment of mathematics, and all the hours that I spent learning the intricacies of econometrics. Let's forget about the experience in warehouses, and the financial brokerage licenses. Forget about writing, forget about factories, forget about any other prospect. This could be your life, buddy. Aren't you the lucky one?" And, yes, if I had a job-- any job-- I would be, in fact, the lucky one.
So as the sun set and painted the spackle city in its waning pastel rays, I anticipated and feared some temporary closure. Then, in the cooling of the afternoon, I received a phone call. It was concerning a position that would keep my hard-earned brokerage licenses alive. I knew, from the onset, that it wouldn't be glamorous, but it would be a step in the right direction. After one day of seriously weighing my options, and deciding that my best bet was to act as if I didn't have any, there came a ray of light.
Gainful employment, here I come! Maybe!
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