The Job of Humility

"You act like you already have it," my queen says.

"That's because I do," I reply.

That's right, after two-and-a-half years of "freelance work" (pronounced "unemployment") I've got a job interview I know I'll nail. How do I know the job is mine? Because I don't want it.

In all my blog-long days, I've aimed my little pointer at a wall-poster portraying a writer as seen page 1543 of Webster’s New World Dictionary and said, “That’s me.”

“Rob I thought I asked you to keep your pointer private in public.”

In public or private, I’m a writer. I’ve soul searched, career searched and word searched. Paid or unpaid, a writer, that’s who I am.

That's why tomorrow's seasonal retail sales associate interview transfuses my vein’s blood to bile. Trust me. There’ll be no writing there. It’s all smiles and serving the whims of a less than adoring public.

“Do you have this same muffler in a microfiber teal?”

“Well, it’s called ‘the great grey wooly.’ I’m gonna say no.”

“Why don’t you check anyway?”

Ready to serve…

"I hate retail!” so went my post-collegiate cry, followed by the words, “I will never return!” Notice the audacious pride in my voice. That's how you know I really said it. The mark of a true writer is his proclamations of pure melodrama.

“I’m wounded to the soul!”

“uhm, suck it up honey, it’s called a hangnail.”

“My lifeblood…spills…out…”

“Yeah, I’ll catch that in this great grey wooly thing you brought home.”

So if we move the self-pity train back down the tracks to six months ago, we’ll see my queen and I talking about work: why she does it, and why I don’t. Words are tossed in the air, “writer,” “underappreciated,” “freeloader,” and the like. This is where I walk off in a huff. Right after she suggests I take a “nametag” gig.

"Retail is like saying, 'I failed.'" I say. Unemployed or not, I am not a failure. Once again I proclaim to never see my name punch-stamped and glued to a plastic logo-broach again—ever—never-ever.

“…and I’m here to tell you, that’s a mighty long time.”

So here I am, at the end of a mighty long time feeling mighty disgruntled.

I mean, what the heck? I spent twelve years of my life in retail. I did everything from sales, to stock, to manager. It's why I went to college. Then there's the four years to earn a bachelor's degree, the ten years in another career, and all the lines in-between scrawling out my after school special story. Why the hell would I return to retail?

Because apparently God wants me to.

Yes. For anyone who's read my life, there shouldn't be any confusion: Where God leads, I follow. Usually I follow feet first while my hands claw for finger-holds in the where-I-wanted-to-go tundra.

In the past two years I've clutched for regular work. I'm a writer. Employers need writers, why don't they need me? Their lacking has been my disheartening. In the time I've known the Pirate Queen, she's landed two jobs while I can’t stick one.

That hasn’t stopped me from trying. I've applied for jobs as copywriter, web writer, and even Hallmark writer and still have only gotten one callback.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

You need a job

But we don’t want you.

Happy Unemployment!

Hallmark

And yet (and this is an even more important and yet) writing may be who I am, it may even be who I'm called to be, but it's not feeding my family. My queen makes good money, and it's enough to survive, but it's not enough to pay for one wedding, four tires and uncounted emergencies. We need Rob to get paid.

I've been doing some reading to counter my writing. I read a book on facing giants, like David faced Goliath. At this moment, a job is a big giant staring me down, daring me to work.

One of the chapters in the David book dealt with humility. It talked about looking down on others in lesser standing. Sort of a reverse giant deal. You know, suddenly I’m the giant, and some lesser retail idiot is the—yeah, anyway I don't do that, but I do look at some work being more worthy my time than others. I am, after all, a writer, and writers don't do retail.

But out of work writers do what they have to. I thought of what I could do. I can't get a job, so now what? I remembered the book I was reading. I remembered retail. I remembered humility.

So I said a prayer. I reminded God how much I hated retail, how much I hated working weekends and holidays, and I reminded him how little I could actually make and that I'd need suits. I told him that I would give him my cry, and let him decide.

I applied for Christmas seasonal work, and spent the rest of the day in mourning. By Wednesday God gave me my answer. I'd been invited for an interview.

Now it's my turn to keep up my end. Tomorrow I swallow my pride, and I give the interview that gives me the job. Right now, this is about humility.