Today is a very special day—none other than the one month anniversary of Before I Quit My Day Job! I’ve decided to celebrate by stickin’ it to The Man and not going to work. Actually, it’s my day off, so I don’t have to go to work anyway. But even if I did, I wouldn’t, so consider The Man stuck.
Earlier this month, I was sitting on my roof deck (well, my parents’ roof deck), enjoying the fruits of my wine cellar (well, their wine cellar) with my friends (okay fine, their friends) when I got The Question. The why-are-you-working-retail-question. And it was the no holds barred version, complete with the classic, “But you went to college!”
Prior to Before I Quite My Day Job, this question would have caused great gnashing of teeth on my part, followed by the raiding of my mother’s no-so-secret chocolate stash, and yet another existential crisis (judging by the number of tissue boxes I have emptied since returning to the US, I am something of an expert on the existential crisis).
But not now.
“You really shouldn’t ask me that up here,” I teased, helping myself to another fistful of trail mix (and it was the good kind, on account of my parents’ houseguests).
“Why not?” the Houseguest replied.
“Because we’re on the roof deck!” I informed him. As far as I was concerned, this was almost a bad as telling a would-be bridge jumper, “Oh yeah, by the way, remember the baby your wife had a few months ago? Turns out it’s not even yours.”
Instead, I raised my eyebrows and asked, “What if I was sensitive about the fact that I’m working retail?”
“But you’re not,” he laughed. “I can tell.”
“You’re right,” I replied, snapping my fingers in a “flying z” with all the finesse of a white girl from So’ Philly (which is a lot of finesse, by the way). “I was, but now I own it!”
And this is true. Most of the time. Especially if we overlook this week’s disappointment, in which Kat Did Not Get Her Dream Job (a London-based dream job, nonetheless, with decent wages, intellectual stimulation and, best of all: NO polo shirts required) but its okay. I’m only 24. A statistically-minded person would tell me that this is not the last time a London-based dream job will cross my path. And on days when I’m not actively riling against my lot in life, I would be inclined to believe them.
Today was one such day. Being a sunny, work-free Tuesday with nary a Stupid Sally in sight, I was prone to all sorts of optimism. I spent the morning at the coffee shop and the afternoon at the library, where I finally completed the first draft of my first novel (and none too soon, seeing as the Philadelphia Writer’s Conference is next month). Now begins the arduous process of revising and editing, which will, in my case (and probably every writer’s case), include truckloads of self doubt. Bring it on!
I can’t wait. In fact, I’m so excited to get started that I would scamper over to Staples right now to print out my manuscript if Glee wasn’t about to start. But it is, and I am nothing if not a woman of priorities.
And so, without further ado, we come to the point of this post: I’m sorry to say I don’t have any Stupid Sally stories today (but the complaining will resume on Thursday, when I return The Shop, so stay tuned). In the meantime, I am very curious about you. Before I Quit My Day Job had over 100 hits today. I would suspect it was just my mom, clicking on my blog over and over again in an attempt to raise my self esteem (and get me to stop stealing her chocolate) but she’s out of town. Without internet access.
So there must be others.
To those of you who have offered comments and encouragement, thank you. And to those of you who have launched matchmaking initiatives (yes, that’s plural) on my behalf, thank you. But for those of you lurking anonymously in cyberspace, I really want to know who you are! And I want you to recommend this blog to anyone who A) hates their job, B) works retail, or C) has a nephew I should date.
So, to celebrate the one month anniversary of Before I Quit My Day Job (and the fact that I haven’t had an existential crisis in… well, almost 48 hours now!) please scroll down, click “Leave a reply” and say hello. And then tell three of your friends they’ll feel a lot better about their lives once they’ve met Stupid Sally.