There comes a time in your life when you just don’t think you can move another muscle.
You pick up one last cardboard box or Rubbermaid container and you think, “Never again.”
But you know that statement is just a breath of wind passing in and out of your lungs.
Hubs may have a job opportunity that will put us on the road yet again. No official word as yet, but the fact that he got a call back almost immediately after testing for the job was pretty astounding.
I have spent hours researching possible rental homes in the new area we may have to relocate to, and it’s mindboggling what people are getting for rent these days.
We love the house we live in at the moment, and the rent is very affordable. Problem is, with this wonderful economy of ours, there aren’t any jobs available locally. Even the old standby jobs of pizza delivery and taxi driver are not to be had.
We aren’t on the brink of disaster yet, but he feels like he has a few good years left in him and he wants to put them to good use.
I’ve been applying for jobs myself, but since I haven’t worked in a decade, I am way behind on everything. Too much technology for my feeble brain to handle. I can still answer a phone and type a letter, but not much beyond that.
I applied as a stock clerk for Van Heusen at the local Walmart and was basically told, “You aren’t qualified.”
I was aghast.
How hard could it be to stock shirts, socks and underwear?
Maybe I’m not as smart or clever as I lead myself to believe.
Should I belly up to the college-bar and get some re-edumacation? Probably so.
I’m not too old of a dog to learn some new tricks.
I thought it would be fun to go to cosmetology school.
Hubs looked at me like I’d grown horns out of my head.
“What on earth would you want to do that for?”
I said, “Well, I’ve always liked to cut hair.”
“If you wanted to become a hairdresser ... or salon stylist ... or barber ... you would have to be on your feet all day. Do you really want to be on your feet all day?”
I thought about it for a minute, and given the trouble I have with my sciatica, “probably not.”
“Well, how about a dental assistant?” I asked.
“Gross! Cleaning other people’s teeth? Sick.”
“OK, how about doing manicures and pedicures?”
Again he squizzed up and shuddered.
“Ew. Pickin’ at people’s feet and toes. Nasty.”
“Well, what’s wrong with it? I could just trim toenails, paint them, buff them....”
“Have you seen my mother’s feet? How would you like to be working on my mother’s feet?”
Ew. Gross. He’s right.
I’ve seen Grandma’s toes and they ain’t purty ... not even when they’ve been polished.
“OK then, what would you recommend that I do?”
“Well, what would you really like to do?” he asked like a benevolent father.
I brightened up and said, “I’d like to be a chef! Or do catering.”
He shook his head and patted my head saying, “Liverwurst on a Ritz wouldn’t work at most functions. And those lil’ smokies with a chunk of pineapple on a toothpick aren’t very high tone.”
“I know, that’s why if I went to culinary school I could learn how to properly boil a pot of water and learn what to do with a can of Spam.”
He folded his arms and sighed heavily. I think it was just beginning to dawn on him that I wasn’t really qualified to do much of anything.
I’m sure that I can find something to do to carry me through the next few years til I get too bored to work.
He suggested I go back to doing office work.
I cocked an eyebrow at him and he said, “Oh. I see.”
I would no more be able to have someone boss me around than I let him boss me around. I said, “Yeah, that would work. The first time someone told me to do something I didn’t want to do, I’d say some kind of expletive and get fired immediately.”
Years of working in an office environment made me realize just how little I wanted to put up with other people’s baloney.
We’ve got a few days yet before we hear the final word on the job situation for Hubs.
In the meantime, I’m gonna hone up on my typing skills.
I could probably get a job as a bill collector somewhere.
That’s where my expertise in using expletives would come in handy.
