I’m getting a slow start today on writing because I have been doing some job stuff. I know what you are thinking, isn’t that foolish girl always looking for a new job? And I confess, the same thought has occurred to me lately. But I assure you, I haven't always been this way. In fact, until about a year ago I never had the guts to quit any job, no matter how silly the pretenses for my employment there.
But the same teeny voice that cues you to be annoyed with my renewed job search leads me to doubt my resolutions as a human being. It’s almost as if, by quitting one job six months ago, I have given myself reign to quit any job once a juicer and less-suck-filled opportunity comes along. And I don’t like that portrait of myself. I much prefer to see myself as a prolonged sufferer – a worker who is able to withstand any amount of physical and emotional turmoil. I don’t like to see myself as a professional nomad.
That’s the dichotomy, I suppose, of not wanting to let people trample all over your mush-colored soul anymore but not being willing to trample on someone else’s. I am proud of quitting my corporate stooge-hood, despite the fact that my monthly wages now come to approximately ½ of my old every-other-weekly paychecks, and I don’t want to reenter the stooge-hood from another (cough, managerial) angle. But the kicker is non-managerial jobs that allow a person plenty of free time and freedom tend to be rather demoralizing. And so, the search continues. I’m thinking of a career in dog washing because dogs never talk back and while they may inflict slobber, they never bicker over coupons.
The real irony here is that I am willing to subordinate my writing-work to search for jobs washing dogs (or the elderly). Try as I might (and type as I might) I can’t seem to let go of that capitalist greed and acknowledge that work without any monetary benefit is still work. It’s a real psychological shitstorm.
Man, I'm such a drag lately. I promise I'll be fun (i.e., rowdy) again soon.
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