Work saves us from three great evils: boredom, vice and need.
“I’m a direct care provider for individuals with developmental disabilities.”
“I’m the operations manager for a local radio station.”
“I manufacture circuit boards for heating and air condition units.”
In the past, these replies to various interlocutors have defined me, bookmarking my place in the workforce. I’ve done many things, and I’ve done them well. Now, I sheepishly reply . . .
“I’m laid off.”
And the way things are looking, I might as well just go the extra step and define myself as unemployed. A call back may happen for those of us on the lower rungs, but how long will it last this time?
So I apply for bullshit jobs. They seem to be the only jobs out there. Jobs my tween could do with a blindfold firmly affixed upon her big, bright eyes. And I wait for the call. Not the one from the bill collectors; those are myriad and wearisome, for there is no money to send. No, I wait for the call that someone, anyone, would like to talk to me about the ________ position, wondering if I’m free on ________ for an interview.
There is a shimmer of hope, a mirage perhaps: an old friend from my radio days called several weeks ago, wondering what it would take for me to go back to work for the company. In Cincinnati. We’ve chatted a couple times, sent emails back and forth, and we’ve brainstormed a plan that just might work, making the three-hour commute and time away from my family closer to worth it. But there are hurdles that need cleared.
So I wait. Like a kid with her head pressed to the window, looking for something that may sneak around the corner. For a chance to do what I once loved doing. Something I’m realizing I might love doing again.
Those shades I used to wear, because the future was so bright? I can’t seem to find them anywhere . . .
(For an update on this post, click here.)