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My job resume, while not impressive, will hopefully provide me with entertaining tales later in life. These tales of mischief and life’s simplest pleasures will undoubtedly make for good talk show banter once I become famous.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m the only person I know who actually does this.
I’ve also come to the conclusion that this is a habit formed purely out of boredom with menial jobs.
“Tell us, Delainey, before you were so filthy rich and adored by millions, what odd jobs did you find yourself faced with?”
“Oh, Oprah,” I’d say with a wave of the hand, “I’ve had my fair share of oddball work experiences and have certainly dealt with the craziness that ensued.”
“Is it true that you worked at Dairy Queen when you were seventeen?” she would inquire, leaning in closer to soak up my natural essence of perfection.
“Honey, you’d better believe it, “I’d say with a wide smile and a small shake of the head.
I would then go on to tell about the Blizzard explosions and grumpy customers. I would laugh lightly while talking about the closing requirements and the hour- long search for bananas that only needed to take fifteen minutes.
“I was still on the clock, you see.”
And the audience would just lap it up like a thirsty dog presented with a cold bowl of fresh water.
Though I think talking to myself like this is somewhat unhealthy. I’ll practice my answers while driving in the car, most of the time in accents, and will turn my head only to discover the passenger in the next car over looking at me with an expression of fear mixed with a dash of ridicule. It’s quite a memorable face, really. I hope that one day you have the opportunity to see it for yourself.
My newest job has provided countless opportunities for me to grow into a responsible and respectable adult. “Opportunities” meaning I would rather pout about my hours and sore feet rather than sucking it up like a real woman.
I work at the airport.
“The airport!” most people sigh. It’s a wistful sort of sigh, too. Eyes glaze over and the mind wanders to exotic locations abundant with cabana boys or expensive cuisine.
In reality I work at a magazine stand. It’s the last stop for people to purchase a box of Airborne and a US Weekly before passing through security, and it’s the first place for people to buy Indiana t-shirts and chintzy cow-town shot glasses after getting off the plane. It’s an occupation dripping with mysterious allure.
Sometimes, when it gets really slow, I’ll practice my interview responses while organizing the candy racks or stocking tissues.
“You see, Conan, it was actually airport security that pushed the red button causing the sprinkler system to go off, not the calico cat!”
Once I said that last part too loud causing the elderly gentleman browsing the shelves to slowly put down his magazine and side step with great caution out of the store.
He probably wasn’t going to buy it in the first place.
On the plus side, it does give me the chance to people watch. I thought this would be a great way to learn how to read people and judge moods. Turns out people don’t really want them staring at you for too long. It just gets uncomfortable. So instead, I started making up stories about peoples lives. There was the Euro trash teen dressed in a turquoise puffy sweater with black jeans and white suede shoes that didn’t quite make it in the underground grunge music sound in California. There was the woman who embezzled millions and was planning a nice clean Jamaican getaway.
That’s all. I got bored after two. Too much effort went in to sculpting people’s lives. It was tiresome and the bright lights in the store started to make me feel light-headed. Besides, I had roasted nuts to stock.