I have had exactly twelve jobs in my life, since I started pulling weeds for Mrs. Kelly at the tender age of ten or so. In that fifteen year span of twelve jobs, I have had exactly two that I couldn't hack. No, I'm not talking about being a custodian for the summer camp facilities that your high school football team uses every summer. Nor I am referring to answering questions for inquisitive traveling Canadians ("I have my tickets for this tour, and I'm sitting in the parking lot outside the building, but I'm just not sure what to do now...").
The first time I felt like dying every time I thought about work was the beginning of last summer, when I worked for two weeks in a dentist's office that, during morning meetings, called their patients not by their names but by the dollar amount they brought in to the practice. My duties included cold-calling unsuspecting past patients and tricking them into coming back for a hygiene appointment. When I left, I lied and said I was hired to teach at a college, when in reality my other part-time position increased my hours when I told my boss that I felt like my soul was being crushed.
Unfortunately, I've found that second job, that position I can't quite hack, the one where I can't enjoy my time off because I'm anxious about having to go back to work the next day.
And people, I've only been there two days.
I'm currently nannying for a very wealthy family whose house has an elevator in it. The girl, who is nine, has informed me that her favorite brand is Dolce & Gabbana, and the little boy, who is six, wonders why I do not have a television installed in the back of my 2005 Hyundai Elantra. My first day, which was supposed to be a 5 hour shift, morphed very quickly into a 9 hour shift, when the mother kept whisking one child off to doctor's appointments, T-ball practice, ballet--the list goes on--and asking me to "work on reading" with the other. These kids fight, shove (each other, myself, strangers), yell, and have no concept of the fact that other people do not live like them. They may be fluent in French, English, and Armenian, but they do not understand why I would buy a used car. Their parents have filled their schedules with so many planned enrichment activities that even reading is something to be "worked on," and as a result they despise it. Their mother assumes I will be available at a moment's notice any time ("We're having two parties in the next few weeks--not sure when yet--on Friday and Saturday night, and we'd like you to be available for both of them."), and hasn't quite explained what I'm supposed to actually do on a day to day basis. In short, I'm living that book--you know the one. And I'd like out of it, thank you very much.