This evening, I put in my resume for a job as a check-out lady at the local military commissary--it pays better than most civilian jobs hereabouts. As sworn beforehand, since I was still unemployed on Sunday, I went to the closest Publix after lunch and applied for multiple positions there--cashier, stocker, cake decorating trainee, floral department staffer and something else which has escaped my memory. Monday, I spent four hours transcribing my undergraduate and post-baccalaureate transcripts, and applied for a Study Abroad Advisor position in the North Georgia foothills. While at the gym a bit later, I was called for an interview by the health food store where I had put in an application on Friday.
I'm glad they asked me to interview, despite my education making me absurdly overqualified. It starts out paying minimum wage, and then clicks higher as you prove your worth as an employee. One of the job tasks is cleaning the store restrooms. I have decided that my education is worth about as much as that of an immigrant who was a doctor or professor in his home country, who upon arrival in the US finds his credentials unrecognized, forcing him to start over at the bottom in middle age. I need to develop the immigrant mentality.
I told the interviewers that I'd cleaned toilets before, and I'd do it again. What is far more humiliating to me than becoming a charwoman is that I found out during the meeting that the boss of the operation is a former cheerleader classmate of mine. Truly, it is not what one necessarily knows (she is a public proponent of juice cleanses for weight loss, which I consider hokum), but to whom one is related. I do remember her as a sweet girl; she was able to step into the family business right after college, whereas I went away to the big city with high academic aspirations. Thus, she may well be signing my paychecks soon. They did also ask, given my education, what would happen if I were to be offered a job in my field. I said that someone would have to die for this to occur, but that if I were offered work with benefits and a retirement plan, I would certainly take it. Who knows what they will decide--I can sing the praises of organic chocolate and peanut butter ad infinitum, but could not swear to do the same for other ingestible substances. I did tell them that historically, organic meant death before 35, but I believed things had considerably improved in the modern era! :-).