My dad used to say they were going to steal our jobs. I didn’t know if this was true, but I took his word for it, and decided to get as many as I could. Just let them try and force me into unemployment, I thought. Even if they steal one or two of my jobs, I’ll have plenty more where that came from. Which has become a problem.
Having nine jobs is way harder than I expected. For one, I’m working 100+ hours a week. And since one of my jobs is writing a weekly column for the local newspaper on what it’s like to have so many jobs, you could almost say I work double that, because I’m having to think critically about what I do while I’m doing it.
One of the ways you make good money in these types of jobs is working overtime. That’s why I asked for so many hours. I thought as soon as I hit a collective forty hours of work for the week, I’d start getting overtime. From everyone. But according to all nine of my employers, that’s not how it works.
On average I get about four hours of sleep a day, but I don’t know if you can consider closing your eyes and letting the exhaustion wash over you while on a delivery bike “sleeping.” Your feet are still moving, and there are cars honking at you from all directions, tires screeching as the drivers slam the brakes. It’s not what you’d call a good night’s rest.
I can feel myself starting to become jaded. And as much as it hurts to say, I can also feel myself getting pissed at my dad, who passed away last year after getting kicked in the chest by one of our dairy cows. Why did he say they’re going to steal our jobs? And who are “they?” A lot of the places I work at, they’re looking for employees. There are positions open, no one’s stealing anything. And even if they were – who cares? These jobs suck, and they don’t pay jack.
Darius, my friend from high school, went to college for graphic design and makes almost $100,000 a year. And he works from home. If I knew I could go to college and learn a skill that would require me to sit on my butt all day, I never would’ve done this. I would’ve told my dad, “Listen, I don’t know who told you someone’s here to steal our jobs, but it’s a load of bull. Also, I think we should sell the dairy cows. I love you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Please, Dad, we can rewrite history. All we have to do is keep you away from the dairy cows. Hey, where are you going? Dad, where are you going? Don’t go into that barn, Dad! Dad, no! Stop, Dad! Dad! Wait!”
I’ve thought a lot about it, and if I had to do it all over again, I would’ve become a professional athlete. Professional athletes have it made. They only have one job, they make a boatload of money, and they retire early.
But, hey. The grass is always greener, right? Maybe some professional athletes out there wish they were more like me, the guy who allegedly keeps our jobs safe.
To those professional athletes who think like that: you’re out of your mind. This is a miserable and thankless calling. If the grass is greener on this side, it’s because I mowed it recently. And not with one of those riding mowers.
