The title of this blog is from a proverb. Simple, direct and to the point. How unlike me? I don't like the music I'm hearing right now and I don't want to dance. It's rap and I don't like rap. It goes like this: "You gotta take a job, you're a big lazy slob. The pay's gonna suck, but you gotta make a buck. Yo Yo!! You're a gerbil, not a fox, gonna put you in a box, make you run, for their fun, pay you shit when you're done. Hey y'aaaalllll!!" This song bites my burgeoning ass.
Anyhow, my interview yesterday was great. I was witty, smart, interesting, and motivated. Allegra, the interviewer, was a straight shooter, and I believe she liked me. In fact, she was great and someone I'd like to work with, as an equal. I even got "the tour" of the facility where I'd be working should I get this job. She gave me the whole run-down on what I could expect, why the other girl didn't work out, salary ($10.50 an hour.......say what?!), working conditions. We laughed, chatted, and she thought my resume was kick-ass, which it IS. In attending a career workshop several weeks ago, I was informed that my resume was an antique. It is now revamped to run the rigors of the big biz computer scanner, ensuring ID of all key words like "ass kisser," "tattle tale," etc.)
The problem? I took one look at the gerbil cage I'd be working in and I felt my not-so-inner jackass starting to shuffle around and mumble obscenities under its breath. It wasn't that the working environs weren't absolutely nice, the other girls appearing friendly, even hinting at being sarcastic, funny bitches like myself, which I would thoroughly enjoy. I just wondered if I could ever reconcile my Self to how mindless this job would be, while still traveling the same miles a day for a shitload less than I was making at my last job. Only here I would trapped behind a desk and sliding glass window, numbing along at work that I could do with half my brain tied behind my back. Total Recoil. I had this job already. Twenty-six years ago. I didn't like it then. I'm going to hate it now.
Then I got a gander at the "job description," all four lines of it. I noticed a typo in this burdensome narrative, which I considered to be a very bad omen. These are the duties: register patients, answer phones, schedule appointments, collect and distribute mail. On page two I see that "while performing the duties of this job [I may be] frequently exposed to risk of electrical shock." Well, thank Christ. I daresay I'd praying for death before too long and electrocution would be a quick and easy solution. Actually this made me laugh right out loud and Allegra still seemed to like me, even after my inappropriate outburst. I wonder if she would have still liked me if I'd pointed out the typo??? Mmmmm? I don't know.
I have nothing to worry about. Allegra will get some nice person in to interview and forget all about me. I have a big personality and a big resume, and she's no dummy. I wouldn't hire me for this job. I'd be afraid of me and what I might say and do down the road, how much anarchy I'd incite, or how quickly I'd be eyeing her job for myself. While this makes me a little sad, the truth is I'd rather be me than most people.
I've had my own sort of "thing," called the shots, been virtually autonomous, and I liked it. I don't know where to go from there. My dear friend, Suzy always says, "Confusion is a state of grace; do nothing." Good advice.
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