Working Stiff

Last September I lost my job editing for one or two reasons, so I had to find a new one to bring just a little bit of money into the household. And now I’m working retail. I’ve been at this place part-time for seven months now, and to be honest, I’m a little embarrassed about it.  

I’m a trained, experienced editor with a decade of office experience under my belt. I’m a published author and a somewhat talented artist who (occasionally) sells greeting cards. And I spend fifteen to twenty hours a week behind a cash register, and I’m not that great at it. 

I am aware that there is something a little bit snobbish about my embarrassment, but not as much as you’d think. I work with people from seventeen to seventy, and I don’t judge a single one of them; they all have their reasons for being there–some out of necessity, some for just a little extra money, and some genuinely love what they do. So why am I so down on myself, if I’m not down on them? 

It may just be because I’m down in general. I haven’t been okay since last summer. I don’t feel like I have anything to contribute to the world, basically. It’s why I don’t post all that much anymore. Some of this is probably a midlife crisis. Much of it is the mental illness I’ve been struggling with all my life, which has been a major source of frustration for my psychiatrist, who can’t find the right cocktail to reduce the pain.  

But in the end, what I’m trying to say is this: I work at The Container Store* now. For better or for worse, it’s what I do. 


* We sell containers. It’s the most on-the-nose name for a retail chain.