If I stay quiet maybe I’ll never be scheduled in my new job.
I woke today with less enthusiasm than usual. Noted. I slept until 8:30. Coffee was little relief. I checked my messages. Nothing. An email from benefits to “sign up in the next thirty-days.” Or…
One of the privileges of my current mode is I am rarely exhausted and burned out. Sure, you say, but you’re not working. “Since you don’t have a job,” my ex-girlfriend used to say. Well, okay.
Job job jobby job. I am afraid. My journey over the last year has been one of disbelief. “Holy crap, my boss is trying to fire me for no reason.” Gratefulness. “Man, I’m glad AI is performing so well.” To fear. “Oh fuck, I’m not getting any offers. I’m too old. Maybe I should take retirement at 62.”
There’s a lot of stress and unrest with the current political elections underway. Again, fear can cause us to do stupid things. This morning, I’m wondering if my “job” is a stupid thing. A way to prove to my son, that retail jobs are hard but we can do hard things.
I don’t want to do hard things again.
When I was working at Dell, an hour away in Round Rock, I came across a janitorial worker slumped over his cart in the bathroom. He was exhausted. Hiding from the horrors of the afternoon. Hoping for indifference from the high-earners coming in and washing their hands after every use. I was instantly sad. Wanting to help. Terrified of becoming that man.
The part of a menial job that killed me last time was the schedule. The part I’m waiting for my new manager to sort out for me. In an eight-hour shift, you get two paid fifteen-minute breaks and an unpaid lunch of thirty minutes. The break room where most “partners” spend their breaks is the most depressing room full of Barco loungers and flat-screen HGTV that I’ve ever seen. Since I’ve been back three times, I haven’t ventured into that room. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to be that sad, that tired, that restricted in my breathing, thinking, doing.
As I got into my groove, I began taking my breaks out in the cafe area. A fifteen-minute chill with a small plastic bowl of pineapple chunks. Then back to work. Then, management, determined that partners needed to eat in the breakroom or outside at the picnic break area. We were being moved into the untouchable class. I was angry. It felt abusive. Did the customers not like eating next to workers? It certainly wasn’t because there were no tables left. It was control and command. I don’t think I can go back to that.
There is a failure in the return. It says I didn’t make it. I didn’t keep the job. I’m not making enough money. I’m not ready for retirement. If I am ready for retirement, I didn’t put away enough money so I have to work at the grocery store for $17 an hour.
It’s an illusion. The choice is mine. The loss is mine. The moment I am in, this creative bloom, elation, bliss even, is at risk. Limited to the time between my shifts. I don’t think I can do it. Shift work. I was complaining about a return to the office. Fuck. This is a return to the army of retail staffing.
Still.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s with no partner. Okay. I might be getting afraid of my own loneliness. I am seeing no signs of loneliness. Signs of “let’s get this show on the road,” yes. But I’m not lonely. I’m reinvesting my energy and time in my creative pursuits.
A friend at lunch yesterday said it well. “You’re in a creative streak. Don’t waste it. It comes and it goes.”
He was right. Sure, the job would force me to focus more intently on my goals. But, can’t I focus on that without taking the actual “wear yourself out” job?
Before the manager calls I have time. Follow up on those applications. A REMOTE gig. I was so set, so proficient, so happy. The creativity was interleaved with my work and nap and tennis and weekends. Shift work steals your weekends. Steals your meandering afternoons.
This morning, watering the front frogs a little late, I was listening to the pause, the no, the stop, the reconsider. I is time for lunch. Tennis is at 7:30 tonight. Health. Happiness. Creative intention and intensity. This novelist thing isn’t going to happen in the gaps, it isn’t going to happen by complacency, it isn’t going to happen unless I commit. Give it time. Stay healthy and rested.
Next up, well fucked.
What if I take the other road. The one I avoid from time to time. Do what makes you feel good. Don’t act out of fear. Act out of confidence, gratitude, and love. This time I’m going to love myself. Say no to the conscription offer and health benefits. I’m going to brave my own story, resist my own fear, and keep pushing the inner song. “I am a writer.”
fear : god > next | index
