A Fresh Start - Dustpans and Icy Roads

Well, blogspot.  We meet again.  This time I am older and wiser, or so I hope. Ah, I feel a story coming on...

When I last met you, it was right after college. I had moved back into my parents' house in Fairview.  I had bought my very first car, a used 1999 Chevrolet Malibu. Some elderly man had owned it before, and it had maybe 12,000 miles on it.

I was unemployed at the time. Just couldn't get a bite. "You're overqualified for this." "You're underqualified for that." "It came down to two candidates, and unfortunately we picked the other one.  You're great though.  We just know you'll find success.  Someday.  Somewhere.  Just not here."

Ah, 2003.  I remember people saying that the job market was at a 20-year low. The media pitied the college graduates, out in search of their first "real" jobs. I thought, "It cannot possibly get any worse than this." (Little did I know...*gulp*)

Well, I had a car--bright and shiny and new and MINE!--but I had to make payments. I knew I needed to make some cash--and fast. One day in late fall, I got a job lead from my friend Adam.  He was a head waiter at the local country club. He said they weren't hiring servers, but he knew of an opening. It paid just over minimum wage. I was on it.

Then, my liberal arts degree in hand (double major in English and theatre), I got a job as a....wait for it...

A housekeeper.

I won't go into details (okay, yes I will), but let's just say my days involved a 7 a.m. start time and lots of ammonia, Windex, Murphy's Oil Soap, and brass polish.  And vacuum cleaners, brooms, and dust cloths.  Oh, and ladies peering at me over their mink stolls, mortified that someone in my position would wish them a "Merry Christmas." I wanted to say, "Hey, lady. I went to school with your son/daughter/grandson/granddaughter. I went to a first-rate college. I got good marks. Yes, I'm working in a low-end job, but you know what?  I am learning responsibility. My father is showing me tough love and not giving me an easy way out.  No, he is not lending me $160/month.  Instead, he is watching me trudge out into the icy cold as he drinks his morning coffee. Yes, I AM a housekeeper, and I do excellent work. P.S. Your son/daughter/grandson/granddaughter is a waste of space. Now get outta my way, you've left smudgy fingerprints all over that railing."

I think it's important to note here that this was not my first job.  No, during summer and winter breaks I had worked as a hostess at Perkins (cashier and milkshake milker extraordinaire!). I had also done odd jobs for an insurance company (sort mail, fold mail, stuff mail, seal mail, post mail, send mail--rinse and repeat). Finally, during college, I had worked in the theatre's scene shop (power tools, lumber, flats, paint). I knew the value of a hard day's work. I was no fragile flower.

But back to the country club. 

The work was tiring, and on those 10 degree mornings, while scraping layers of ice and snow off my windshield, I would ask myself, "Is this really my life?"  Crappy weather and early mornings aside, I liked my job. (This is the absolute, honest-to-goodness truth.  No seriously.  Seriously.)  I did good work. I was an excellent sweeper. I found satisfaction in a well-dusted Nutcracker. And my boss was lovely.  She was in her 40s, had an upbeat attitude, a smiling face, and never complained...even with two bad knees.  (All those years of up-and-down, up-and-down had taken their toll on her body.) Her name was Connie. To this day, I have met few people who possess such infinite kindness.

Besides Connie, the other perk at work was lunch.  We could eat as much salad and soup as we wanted. (Some days, they even treated us to spaghetti or chicken fingers!) Lunch time in the break room was family time. We, the underpaid, under-appreciated laborers of the high-end country club would sit and chat...and then get back to our afternoon work.  Another Christmas party to set up. Another wooden dance floor to tear down. Another sore muscle to stretch.

But I digress.  Horribly.  I do that, you know.  I am the queen of tangentiality.  It's gotta be a word.  Well, at least it is in my vocabulary.

The point is, I was younger then. I was also heartbroken. I used my blog then not only to muse on the day-to-day, but also to ponder important issues such as, "How could he dump me?!?!?  What's wrong with him?  What's wrong with me?" It was a bit ridiculous--all that self-therapy.  But I like to think it helped.

And so here we are at 30.  30.  I say it, and I ask, "Who, me?" But here I am. 30 years old. I've gained a few pounds since I last posted. My back and hip ache with more regularity. I've developed a cat allergy. But I live in a beautiful city.  "Hello, Washington, DC!" I finally have a job I love. I've become infinitely happier. I have tremendous friends and a supportive family. My life is good.

I was inspired to start this up again when one of my best mates, Ames--sometimes I refer to her as "Aussie Amy," started blogging.  Her blog is fabulous and wonderful and even has pictures!  (Call me technologically challenged, if you like.)  She lives in Sydney, Australia, and I miss her to pieces. 

I look forward to writing more.  Shout out to my friends around the world.  I am so lucky to know you. I miss you terribly.  Be safe.  Be well.  Be happy.