A Unique Opportunity

For the past month or so, I’ve been working part-time at the Pro Services Desk at my local Lowe’s. I had been trying off-and-on over the previous five years to do freelance work as a copywriter and editor. I had a few regular jobs over that span, along with a few temp jobs. They didn’t all end well.

Hell, my last regular job before my writing and editing “career” didn’t end well. I worked for the VA for about eight years, and I was completely burned out by the end of it. I don’t want to take a trip down that rabbit hole quite yet, so let’s just say I wasn’t taking especially good care of myself.

So, I tried working as a freelancer. I was enrolled in a few platforms to bid on work, and I wrote about a pretty wild variety of topics, from coping skills for seasonal depression to upgrades for your AR-15. I had a couple of contract gigs doing product descriptions and long form content, but honestly, I hated writing that shit. It was drivel. I worked as a driveler. And although the quality of my output was fine, I struggled with it, and I struggled with some deadlines. I guess I could have worked on stuff to propose to editors, but I don’t think I would have known where to begin.

I do like editing much better. I don’t have to produce any drivel; I just have to look at it. I look at it and tell someone, in a nice way, how it could be improved. I like telling people things in a nice way. The problem has been that with limited formal editing experience, it is rather difficult to actually get editing work, especially when one goes through spells when one might not be particularly proactive about getting work.

Fortunately, I get some service-connected compensation from the VA for lingering issues associated with my active-duty service. Otherwise, I’d be living in my car or dead by suicide. (That link goes to my favorite article about suicide. . . You may not appreciate it.) Somehow, I got my head out of my ass—psychologically, of not literally—and before I reached the point of full financial despair, I got that job at Lowe’s. I had been telling people for a long time—for fucking years—that I could just get a part-time job at Lowe’s to help make ends meet, and there I was.

Working for the Pro Desk has been the perfect transition back to regular employment for me. I have a regular-ish five-day per week schedule with days off alternating every other week, and I worked from 10am to 3:30 each day. It’s been ideal for me to reorient myself to time. It’s helped me reestablish a sleep hygiene routine, so even though my sleep, itself, still sucks, I’m generally well enough rested to function.

Reorienting to time has also helped me establish a workout routine and a writing routine. My core is so goddamn strong right now, and I’ve been writing pretty much every day—not about arbitrary bullshit that I might struggle with and be paid for, though. This will be my fourth TedBlog post in the last month, a record-setting pace of productivity for me.

The biggest change is that I’m not stuck in the bullshit place in my head that has bedeviled me for decades, well, that I’ve let bedevil me for decades. I hate that place. I feel so stupid there. (I hate even linking to that post because I hate that part of me so much.)  But my head is clear right now. I’m present in reality, and I’m writing regulary. My core is so goddamn strong. . . I’m in a good place. I’ll keep writing for TedBlog, and when I’m ready, I’ll work on a bigger project.

For now, though, things are just swell. I could survive for a while working part-time at Lowe’s. I don’t think I could get full-time hours because I’d have to completely open my schedule to the whims of the store scheduler, and I don’t want to do that. I want specific times blocked out for regular happenings that are important to me.

So, while I really like working at Lowe’s—at least in my department—I know I can’t really afford to do it until I retire and be able to afford any luxuries at all. I might be able to afford a dinner out once per month or so, but I would struggle to pay for my cool woodworking projects, let alone repairs and upgrades for TedHouse. I would be really screwed if something happened to my car.

With reality doing what it does—slapping me in the face—I know that I have to do something about my income. I’ve already turned down one job offer for an admin assistant position. I would have been Assistant to the Regional Manager, which was a temptation that many fans of The Office wouldn’t be able to turn down. It was minimum wage, though, so meh.

Then a friend texted me about the reference she’d given me for a job that I’d forgotten about. It’s an office job, that might not be as fun as Lowe’s, but the pay is definitely better, and I’d surely be much more financially secure as I head toward retirement—and even after I retire. I’d be able to do things and pay down my debts more rapidly. And I will be able to have fun there; I can entertain myself wherever I go. I start on the 25^th.

For now, though, I’ll keep my new employer to myself and also off the Facebooks. I’m certain my new supervisor will appreciate that. I can see them saying something like, “Keep the name of this organization out of your goddamn whore mouth,” and slapping me in the face. And with a lot of the foolishness I tend to post, I’m sure they’ll appreciate me keeping it off social media. It’ll probably be okay to post about it on LinkedIn, but I’m kind of thinking about finding a way to make LinkedIn more fun for me. It may be wise to hold off on sharing my new employment situation there. (And no, I don’t know what “finding a way to make LinkedIn more fun for me” would even look like, yet.)

  

So, I’m starting a new job, and I’m not even telling you what the new job is. What’s the big deal? You see, here’s the thing. I don’t have as much of a history of leaving jobs on great terms as I’d like, but I’m not sure I even give a shit about that.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve left some places on great terms, and I’m sure some of them would hire me back. I don’ think many of the temp agencies I worked through would give me another chance. I didn’t take those jobs all that seriously because they were, well, temp jobs.

As for my career at the VA, itself, I did leave rather abruptly, and I did send an email to everyone about “blowing this clam bake.” I may have sometimes put “what everyone was thinking” into, you know, words. I mean, I didn’t even get an interview when I reapplied for a job that I had previously excelled at and ultimately mentored. Thank goodness for that, though. I wasn’t ready, psychologically, for full-time employment then.

My true masterpiece of leaving on poor terms was my last nine-or-so months in the army reserve. I really went off the rails for a while. It was kind of fun, in retrospect, for me, some of the time.

It started after I got my 20-year letter, the certification of my right to army retirement benefits at the age of 60. Seems innocent enough, right? Well, I’d also just broken up with someone whom I’d felt was the love of my life. It was an incredibly amicable situation. We didn’t fight. We were able to disagree in a reasonable and respectful way. There was just one thing that we couldn’t get past. But all that peaceful break-up stuff made it no less painful. I was heartbroken.

Adding my 20-year letter to that emotional situation was not ideal. I tend to be rather reflective when I hit benchmark moments like that, and as someone who’s incredibly self-critical, my reflections aren’t especially positive. Further exacerbating the situation, I haven’t always been self-aware when it comes to knowing why I might be feeling a certain way, especially when I might be feeling miserable. It tends to sneak up on me (for some reason), but I may suddenly realize something, like, oh, I’m going to be 50 this month. That’s why I feel so shitty.  However, getting that 20-year letter wasn’t such an obvious indicator of a transition for me. I know that makes me look kind of stupid, but I was already down because of the break-up.

When I put on my uniform for that first drill weekend after getting the letter, I felt nothing but anguish—a mood most foul. And I wasn’t going to retire for another eight months because the army would have recouped part of my reenlistment bonus if I didn’t complete the full, initial six-year term of my contract. Looking back, I probably should have just paid the goddamn $1,500.

That Saturday morning in early October 2012 was not a pleasant one for me. At first formation when we were asked if we had any questions or anything to offer for the good of the group, I raised my hand, and when called upon I said, “I just want you all to know that I do not give a fuck,” seething that bitterness at everyone.

“Okay,” that felt like the general, awkward response. Jackson, who had held the formation said it, but there was that unspoken, widened-eyed “okay” in the room. My declaration wasn’t a news flash. No one was shocked. I hadn’t made a habit of going about my drill weekends giving much of a fuck about anything. Indeed, there were a couple of drill weekends when I spent a great deal of time riding a pallet jack around like a scooter. That was a lot of fun, but I usually just did what I had to do and bitched about the bullshit like everyone else.

One thing that I had actually given a significant fuck about was the suicide prevention program. I had plumbed those depths, myself, and I could see how a few of the guys carried some of their deployment experiences with them. I wouldn’t let a session on suicide prevention go by if it had been half-assed. (Guys, that time we had suicide prevention two drills in a row is because I bitched about it being half-assed the first time.) I would often volunteer to lead the sessions if I felt the person chosen to do it couldn’t give it a serious enough treatment.

You know, it sometimes hurts my feelings that it took so long for someone to sit me down and see what was going on with me. I’d had at least a tenfold increase in assholesque behavior. That significant a change should be addressed. There was clearly something going on with me. I had been repeatedly announcing that I didn’t give a fuck over three drill weekends. The leaders in other platoons were talking to their people about the bad example in “another platoon.” Only one person suggest that it wasn’t such a great idea to let everyone know that I didn’t give a fuck all the time. My counterpoint was that I actually didn’t give a fuck all the time, and the issue wasn’t pressed until the December drill.

That month we had a holiday family day, which, I imagine, had some of the unit leadership concerned about my recent public announcements of not giving a fuck. The party was scheduled for Sunday, and one of the things we had to do on Saturday was a urinalysis. (I’ll save the story of what I did at the urinalysis for another post. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever done.) After I provided my sample and left the area, the detachment First Sergeant, and a dear friend, Kelvin Mote, took me aside. He brought me into his office and asked me what the hell was going on with me because I was becoming a cancer for unit morale. Some people were afraid to even talk to me.

I broke down. I told him how miserable I’d felt lately, and I realized that my 20-year letter had triggered this. I told him that I felt deeply that my time in the army reserve had been wasted. I’d missed so much time with my family, so many weekends and birthdays, so may weeks during the summer, so much during the year that I’d mobilized. I’m motivated, at least vocationally, by being able to make a difference, and I felt like I hadn’t made a difference at all.

Mote helped me reframe my thoughts about my military career. He helped me remember the younger soldiers I helped get promoted along the way and about—among other things—how I’d taken ownership of the suicide prevention program, how I’d made sure it was done well. I was crying and thanking him, and I acknowledged that the recent break-up probably wasn’t helping my mood. After that weekend I went back to my most recent therapist for a few sessions. It helped. Now, I’m fine!

Before I left his office Mote asked me about what happened at the urinalysis. Apparently, the Piss Test NCO—or whatever he was called—had been complaining about my being “out of control” or some such nonsense. So, I told Mote about it, and we had a hell of a laugh over it. I had, technically, been correct in everything I said while at the urinalysis. Oh, such a damn good laugh. (You’ll really enjoy this story when I write it.)

On that Sunday afternoon, after our holiday party—which went off without a hitch and without any Ted-centered spectacles—we had one final formation, at the end of which, we were asked if we had anything to add, for the good of the cause. I raised my hand, making note of the immediate tension that filled the room. Jackson, who was holding the formation, called on me, “Perrin.”

For a moment, I just reveled in that tension before saying, “I just want you all to know that I do not—” and here I paused, soaking up the tension created by my call back to the frequent proclamations of my dearth of fucks to give. Jackson’s eyes widened, ever-so-slightly, and I could see his head slowly, almost imperceptibly shake, silently screaming a message of No! Not in front of the families. For there were many family members in the room, waiting for their significant others and parents to be released. I think I even heard a “no” or a “don’t do it” or two, or maybe that’s what I want to remember. So I continued, to the collective relief of my unit, “—recall when we’ve had such a pleasant time with all the families here.”

During the remaining few months I had in the army reserve, I mostly just did what I had to do, and I fucked off the rest of the time—not necessarily a huge difference from the time before I got my 20-year letter.

For my final PT test I did one pushup—one perfect pushup—and I got up. I couldn’t do sit-ups anymore because my back is so shitty. My back couldn’t deal with the two-mile run, either, so I had to do a two-and-a-half mile walk. I let both feet “leave the walking surface” to disqualify myself from the walk. I jumped off the ground a foot in front of the starting line, and then I cheered the rest of the group on. Then I told one, last lie when we did the weigh-in.

During my last drill weekend, I put a banana in my pocket for the last time in uniform, and I called it a career.

I haven’t always had such entertaining, to me, departures from jobs. I’ve been fired for not meeting the requirements of performance improvement plans, and I once quit a job because the anxiety the workplace created had me thinking about dying as a solution. That was a relief—the quitting, not the thinking about dying.

Now, having given my formal notice to Lowe’s—at least for the regular hours that I’ve been working. I have that titular unique opportunity. (Am I using “titular” correctly? I’ve never really seen it used like this. I don’t care. I'll just coin a new usage.) I can go out with a bang without having it affect my resume, which will only reflect having worked at Lowe’s for a couple of months. I left for a full-time job. I can do whatever I want at Lowe’s now.

When I was offered the new job, I told Lowe’s that I’d be available to work on weekends. I’d like to bring in a little extra cash to help pay down some debts a bit more aggressively, but I can really get by without the extra hours, especially since I’m about to get some more editing work.

I’m not sure what I’ll do. It won’t be something illegal. Probably. It will be very fun, for me. Maybe I’ll get a sharpie and cross out all the “Kobalts” and make them “Cobalts” because there’s no goddamn “K” in “cobalt.” (I don’t trust things that are spelled with “Ks” instead of “Cs” if they originated in the south—Krispy Kreme, Klan, etc.)

I’ll figure something out. Part of why I wanted to stay on is the employee discount, but I found out that I can’t combine the employee discount with my veteran discount. Somebody told me that I could, though—sure that person doesn’t know what they were talking about, but that doesn't matter. So maybe if I demand the additional ten percent off my purchases because I was quoted the combined discount by a store employee, could create a hilarious scene? I don't know. I’m sure I would hear about that from management, but I don’t know if that’ll be awesome enough for me to write about on TedBlog. I’d like to milk this situation for at least one post per attempt to do something stupid or outrageous enough to get fired. Maybe I could develop it into a book about stupid things to do while trying to get fired from Lowe’s?

I guess I’ll have to keep you posted.