Two (three?) months ago I wrote what was supposed to be the first of a two-part post. I have tried repeatedly to complete the second half, but it just isn’t working. So I’m giving up. (The beauty of being one’s own publisher, yes?)
Suffice it to say …
You see? I have no words.
One of the great things about turning thirty is that I’ve begun to have a pretty good sense of my own limitations. Such as knowing the kind of work environment that makes my work output grow progressively worse over time. This is gives certain choices a bit more clarity: Sometimes it’s less a question of quitting now or hanging on till something better comes along, than of quitting now or getting fired later.
It is hurtful to tell someone that they have the people-managing skills of a lobotomized honey badger, but if the alternative is waiting to collapse under the strain and then getting sacked, well, then, that would be hurtful to me.
And I am nothing if not attentive to the needs of number one.
The most attractive thing about this job was that it was a sort of skilled labor, which made it less dull than my other option—hotel housekeeping. But in the right circumstances, housekeeping gains a certain je nai sais qua.
And, the boredom can prompt useful acts of desperation, such as walking into the local newspaper unannounced and asking for work.
So now I’m a maid. And also an underemployed freelance journalist.