History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.
–Sir Winston Churchill
It’s the last thing that I ever imagined—someone calling me a workaholic. That’s not me. I don’t spend 60-80 hours a week at the office.
Well, maybe I do.
But that’s only because my office is in my house. And it’s only because I do everything here in this office, from teaching class and taking class online to writing stories of all kinds, maintaining three blogs, researching all kinds of future projects as well as present issues, AND—in case I ever get bored—scouring the internet for future job possibilities.
I also pay bills, answer emails, text family members, read the news, stay up on current events, keep tabs on my favorite teams, watch my favorite teams, complete online crosswords, and mindlessly view any number of inane Facebook and/or YouTube videos in my office.
A workaholic? I don’t think so. I’m just…eh, busy. Yeah, that’s it…just busy.
I like to stay busy. I guess that’s why I have had over 50 jobs in my life.
Yeah, you read that right, 5-0 …FIFTY.
Now, not all of those were full-time jobs, mind you. Most were part-time gigs, things that I did mostly for the money or the experience. Some were different jobs with the same employer. Some were the same job with different employers. Many were different jobs with different employers. Some overlapped other jobs. Some lasted a long time. One lasted a half a day.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I’ve never been fired. Not once. No pink slips. No swift kick out the door. No “get the heck out of dodge and don’t come back,” kind of thing. That doesn’t mean the handwriting hasn’t been on the wall a time or two. There were those occasions when I got out while the gettin’ was good, if you know what I mean.
The point is, this was the context in which I was once called a workaholic—the realm of the thirty-page (and counting) resume.
Merriam Webster describes a workaholic as a “compulsive worker.” I guess, when I look back over my life, that can truly be said about me. For the most part, I have always worked.
Officially, I started working at age 16. That’s when I made my first paycheck. It’s also when dear old Uncle Sam welcomed me into his special merry band of certifiable taxpaying nincompoops. You know the type: those indentured servant-like beings who blindly give most of what they earn to the government so that those fat cats in office can justifiably maintain their “well-earned” lifestyle, and so that they can ensure that they never leave office again. Yeah, that’s basically all of us.
I jest.
If you want to get technical, I made my first buck working “under the table” mowing lawns around my neighborhood. I then did some babysitting, also under the table. These took place long before I ever filled out an application, a W-4 form, or an I-9, and long before I received a W-2 in the mail at then end of January.
Now in each one of these 50+ jobs, I learned something. Usually it was the hard way, but let’s stay positive here and focus on the fact that I gained something from each opportunity, okay? In the entries that will follow, I will share some of what I learned as well as a specific experience from each job. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn something about the value of work. Most likely, however, you’ll just get a good laugh at the many absurd things I’ve done or said as an employee over the years.
How I ever survived, I have no idea. Grace of God, I suppose. Grace of God.