My beauties, I have sinned against you. Though I seek redemption, I take not to the catholic booth for redemption, but to the blog, for indeed I have a confession to make. Well, I likely have more than one, but they tend not to be the sort of confessions one makes in a blog, and more of the sort of confessions to tell the therapist I don’t need but my narcissism wants anyway. So while I will decline to tell you about the origins of my love of Four Loko, or my sexualized hatred of pineapple, I will inform you, somewhat shamefacedly, of my recent, and unexpected unemployment.
Confession number one (be not offended by my petty dishonesty!): My doormanning gig became far more sporadic and unreliable back in early September, as I had also begun working as a journalist for a public policy magazine
Confession number two: I got my sorry journalistic ass fired.
Well, technically, I fired myself. Not in the “you can’t fire me, I’m flame retardant!”, but in a way less awesome and pun-nasty way. The job had not been working out for quite some time, for a number of reasons that I will save for my therapist. Round 12 o’clock, which was usually my Fake cigarette break (alternately known as stand outside for five pointless minutes) sir Boss called me into his office, and summed up the discussion with “its not working out”.
As charming as it was that he used a phrase so oft-used by ex-girlfriends (I had to resist the Pavlovian response plea of “I’ll get better at it”) I was forced to admit the seriousness of the conversation, and quickly did away with my usual make a bad joke to lift the tension tactic. He did not fire my right away, but rather assigned me three different things that I could do and that we would revisit the conversation the following day.
Not only did sir Boss ruin my smoking break, but he also janked lunch for me. How was I supposed to eat while proving my newfound dedication and love for the position? I sat pondering this question instead of doing the work. I was very hungry.
At ten of five, I simply went in and told him that I didn’t see much coming back from the preceding conversation, and that was the end. And so, I fired myself. Ironically one of the few break ups I’ve walked away from dignity. I had never been fired before.
I deleted files from my computer, tore out the pages from my note books, returned pens to the pen drawers and various papers to various paper drawers, shook hands with my coworkers, and quietly walked out the door.
I did indeed quietly walk out the door. And about two minutes later, I walked quietly back in. You see, while waiting for the elevator, I’d realized that I’d left my peanut butter, jelly, and bread in my fridge. Waste not, want not, and I wanted.
My co-workers all watched me somewhat surreptitiously, waiting to see what I would do, my boss’s chrome dome I could just see on the cusp of the doorway.
And so, with their eyes watching my every move I walked out again, head high, shoulders, back, peanut butter in the left hand and jelly in the right.
Bonus: in telling this story to my father, I realized that I had also left my dignity in the office, but decided I probably shouldn’t try to go back and retrieve. My father did not seem quite so sure what to say, and so did what any father does for a son bearing bad news. He channeled his inner Scooby Doo, and quoth he: “rut ro”.
Rut ro, indeed. Unemployment, here we come.