The breeze tickles through my legs. The rain cleared from the sky hours ago. It was rain that kept me home from work today, the wetness that told me to stay put. Knowing that if I did this, if I didn’t go into work, then I would not have my job, I threw down my bag that I packed for work, and picked up my pen. This is what I was meant to do, to write. And so I search for meaning outside of the burdens of work.

I need a job in which I can call in with creativity. As in: “I’m feeling creative today and need to stay home to write.”

In this afternoon sun which no longer hides behind the rain clouds, I sit comfortably in my own work clothes, the clothes I threw my body into when I decided to not go to work. My uniform for my own workday: brown tattered cut-offs, and a navy blue tank that hangs loosely from my shoulders. The tattoos are not covered, the leg and armpit hair waves freely, and I have yet to put on shoes today. This is how I work: comfortably in my body, staying present in my thoughts as I work at not tuning out the world, like I do whenever I am at a job.

Perhaps I am not wired correctly to have a job in the outside world. And perhaps this is okay. I have found my niche, my writing desk I sit at for over eight hours a day, and work at my unpaid career of writing. There are words I jot down that will never be published. The nonsensical meditative bits I open my brain up with every morning. Still, I write. But there is meaning here. The meaning being that I am writing.

The job I quit today was one that I actually hadn’t been hired at yet. I was to come in for two test shifts totaling eleven hours to see if the job was right for me, if I was right for the job. The job: taking care of dogs. Something I love to do, something I’ve been paid to do before. I knew I could do this job well, would probably even enjoy doing it, too. But the rain told me to stay home, as in: Wouldn’t it be nice to stay inside all cozy today and just write? Yes, yes it would.

And I’m financially in the space where I can do this, because I have loved ones who believe in me, who support my work. Thanks, guys.

But perhaps I’m just spoiled.

Thinking about spoiled, though, makes me think about what is rotten. For example: making someone work for eleven hours in which you will not pay them. Rotten. Taking care of wet dogs who are unhappy and snappy. Rotten. Walking in the pouring down rain to prove myself for six hours that I can work a job I’ve done for many years in the past. Rotten. As in: hell no.

Perhaps, though, I’m hiding. Instead of telling the boss I think it’s rotten that she’s making me work for free, that she’s spoiled to get my skill set donated to her, I hide behind these words with the hopes that she will never Google search me and come across this blog. If she does, well, then, oops. Because maybe these words were meant to be read. Maybe she’ll hire me on anyway, seeing that I did spend my day working for free. Such tenacity.


1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    This resonates so deeply with me, Chelsey. Thank you for the reminder that I’m not alone in feeling like I’m just somehow not built for work. Well, certain kinds of work… Rotten kinds.

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