I started my first job in 1996 when I was newly 16. It was at an old general store in the town of Readsville. A town so forgotten, there wasn’t even a post office back then. My duties included, but were never limited to:

-Slicing deli meats and cheeses from huge blocks and making sandwiches for old men who had very particular ways of wanting their sandwiches, for example, the cheese against one piece of bread with a slice of ham on top and then the other piece of bread with a slice of ham on top and nary shall the two sides meet to form a sandwich. This was so he could shake out at least a tablespoon of black pepper onto both sides and about half of it on the counter

-Pumping gas if someone came in asking me to or looked like they really needed help

-Selling Marlboro Reds to people using food stamps (no one told me I wasn’t supposed to)

-Running down the janky steps into a probably haunted basement just to scream while trying to use a tiny net to fish out a dozen minnows for bait in a tub way too large for the amount of tiny minnows that lived in it

-Praying that no one came in the store while I had to pee since the toilet was in that same basement, literally in the middle of the room with no walls

-Calling 911 for a few car wrecks

-Giving directions to lost city folk who’d wandered too far off I-70.

-Listening for hours as my lady boss (and owner) talked to me a mile a minute with garlic breath about anything and everything. It ranged from local gossip to what I now understand as conspiracy theories. Overall, she was a wonderful woman (Because when you worked, you could eat and drink ANYTHING you wanted for free!)

-Adding things to peoples’ tabs which was just a scrap of paper dangling from a nail behind the register

The cash register was really old, so it made the “cha-ching” noise when the drawer shot open. What I loved most was the feeling of pushing it back in with my hip when my hands were full of cig cartons. Minimum wage rose that year, so my pay went from $4.25 to $4.75 an hour. I think I worked there about a year before I found a job in Fulton at a video store: Broadway Video which eventually became Movie Gallery. That job was the ultimate dream of any kid during that decade, and yes it’s just like you imagine. The soundtrack, the baggy pants, the porn room, and me taking home tapes where two girls kiss without officially checking them out because I didn’t want anyone to know how many times I watched “All Over Me.”

But this is not about those fond teenage memories. It’s about jobs.

Specifically, it’s about not having one.

I was laid off on November 17th, so just about a month ago. It wasn’t completely unexpected, but it still stung and felt a little personal. That job was the most money I’d ever made and the company seemed to be one with great stock options and unlimited growth and all those corporate words. But. I only got to be there about a year and a half.

I’ve been working since I was 16 (nearly 30 years), and still have, what?, like, 20 more to go? Does this shit never end?

I began to say this is the longest I’ve ever been without a job, but I do still have a job; I’ve been coaching at my gym for a year and a half. Generally, it’s just about 5 hours of work a week, but I’ve been asking for more classes since I was laid off. I guess I enjoy it so much, I forget to call it work.

But you know what I mean.

My last week doing archaeology was really lovely. It was in southern Illinois on more than a thousand acres of mostly wooded areas with rolling hills and a large creek that we passed through several times. For the seven days I was there, I dug about 150 holes, always got my 10,000 steps in, enjoyed shimmying under barbed wire fences and over felled trees. I basked in the sunlight and some days when it was 65 degrees and felt my cold nose when it was only 39, windy, and overcast. I was so grateful for my body, which is 45, to be able to not only keep up with the 25 year old techs, but for being able to out walk them. Out maneuver them in the woods.

You’re wondering what the plan is now, I bet. My health insurance runs out December 31. Not just mine, but the whole family’s. I have archaeology applications in. My previous job is hiring, but kind of not because of a hiring freeze. It sucks that this country’s healthcare is attached to jobs. It sucks that I can’t just already own a massive piece of land I could try to build a tiny cabin on and spend my days as a content hermit.

I guess I always thought that at this age, I’d be more successful. In the sense that my job would be permanent and fixed, that I’d have nothing to worry about. That I’d be doing something I loved and was really good at. I feel like maybe the stories of the 1980s were too influential on me. I always pictured myself a frazzled, yet competent career woman wearing a power suit with those linebacker shoulder pads. I thought I’d be in some position where people would, like, have to call me because I’d be the expert on whatever it was. I’d be someone who’d get a call, roll up in my official vehicle, take off my sunglasses and say, “show me where it is,” and people would be relieved I was finally there. Or something like that feeling. You know?

When I was little I wanted to be:

• a professional baseball player (obviously the Cardinals)
• an archaeologist
• a writer

I’ve achieved two of those three, and I think I can substitute rugby player of several decades, coach, and referee for baseball. In some ways, I’ve accomplished everything I ever set out to do. But in other ways, and most of the time, I still feel like I haven’t done anything. I still haven’t done “IT.” And I can’t quite figure out what IT is.

I still haven’t written the great American novel. I’m still not a scientist who gets called in to testify during intense trials or interviewed for PBS specials. The closest I got to being a Cardinal was getting to stand on the field at Busch Stadium while Cyrus ran the bases. The tears I shed were of joy and for myself-not my kid.

As I’m probably past the middle point of my life, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on my life up until now.

Would Christina, the weird girl who used to write poetry by the river, the 16 year old who spent hours alone in the 100 year old general store in the middle of rural Missouri dreaming of the rest of the entire world… would she think I’m cool? Would she like me or be proud of me? Would she want to be me?

I’m wise enough to know things never turn out the way we plan, but I’m not spiritual enough to believe things turn out the way they’re supposed to by some grand design. And I’ll die before saying, “it is what it is.”

I guess there’s no moral to the story here, today. And there doesn’t have to be. Sometimes a story is just a sequence of events with no unifying theme.

Sometimes it just takes a while to piece it all together.