First Jobs

I wish you would all submit your essays for this topic because I know you all have something to say about this.  (I will admit right off that I never had a real job until my sophomore year of college.  Embarrassing.  But reality.)  This is a long one.  I don’t blame you a bit for skipping it, it’s mostly just for the record anyway.  But maybe if you stick around you’ll recall similar memories—probably not in the tasks themselves, but what it was like to be such a novice at so many things.

When I was 12 I was like a lot of you, starting to figure out how to earn some money.  After weighing my options, I asked my aunt if I could clean her house on Saturdays.  This was the perfect fit for me.  She didn’t need me, but she was gracious and generous.  So generous.  Before I knew it, I was cleaning for her neighbor.  And in my uncle’s dental office.  I guess everyone hated housecleaning because word spread and I was hired by all sorts of women.  I eventually ran out of time on Saturdays and had to squeeze in jobs between sports and other commitments after school too.  I always felt bad when I couldn’t fit someone in, but I just didn’t have any slots left toward the end of high school.  It was good because I could save for college, but I missed going to the beach with my family.  And being home.  And I was always so tired.

When I was really little I wanted to be a hotel maid.  I guess that sort of played into my wanting to clean houses.  That, and not being the babysitting type.  What I liked was going into a messy house (the clean ones weren’t very fun), organizing the pantry and under the bathroom sinks—getting rid of all the old junk and rearranging what was left, changing the sheets, erasing water marks from the bathroom mirrors, vacuuming up all the crumbs and making the sinks shine.  I loved seeing the whole house touched—just like a hotel room that a maid had straightened.  I left the houses ready for their occupants, tidy and inviting.  I imagined how nice it would be for them, coming home from their days.

I learned to love ironing from my aunt—I started with handkerchiefs and moved onto shirts; this became my favorite part of working for her and even now it’s one of my favorite household tasks.  Most of my friends (and kids) hate to iron.  To me it’s the best job in the house because it’s so instantly gratifying and can be done in front of a screen.

I broke my aunt’s figurine and the stick off my friend’s blinds.  I shrunk a lady's white running suit.  I wiped off pool furniture and waxed floors.  I washed out refrigerators—I even discovered grass growing in one—and dusted blinds.  I did laundry and got rid of cobwebs.  I preferred it when the people weren’t home so I could work without running into them.  And I could listen to my music.  But I hated being alone in the dentist office.  So inconsistent, I know.  I suppose I was a little embarrassed at being a house cleaner, but I still love cleaning and organizing—it’s just that now I don’t care one bit that it’s nerdy.

So my first real job requiring an interview was working in the bread room in the basement bakery at BYU.  I had no idea there was even a job called “bread slicer.”  My only qualifications I could honestly offer were that I was a hard worker and I was dependable.  I suppose those qualities would wow most employers these days, but that was pretty much expected back then.  I’d go in around 1 or 2 in the afternoons and slice, bag, count, and stack loaf after loaf of bread.  All varieties.  We all know there’s nothing like the smell of fresh bread.  Most days I’d slice buns with my friend.  Things got a bit nutty around game weekends—we’d slice for days and days in preparation.  We fed the dorm dwellers, missionaries at the MTC, game attendees and students who indulged in any sort of bread product on campus, so it was quite the production.  We listened to Queen incessantly.  Until I introduced them to Oingo Boingo and the other tapes I had at school.  I had only been working there a couple of months when suddenly I was in charge of the whole operation (come summer term the others failed to register for classes and were unable to work on campus).    I can’t even tell you the blunders and mistakes I made, the problems I caused.  I messed up inventory, miscounted, and missed my co-workers like you can only imagine.

The only other college job offer came shortly thereafter and I had it until the day I gave birth nearly 4 years later.  I became one of those golf-cart drivers who gave campus tours out of the Visitors Center.  I still have little-known, useless facts about BYU floating around in my brain more than 17 years later.  I mostly liked it—I’d have to think about it.  It was cold in the winter—even with lap blankets.  Scary taking football players.  I’m not the best at reading people, but I don’t think they cared that much about the history of the campus.  Construction projects made driving a little rough.  I liked working at the desk because I felt like a secretary, but I mixed up tours all the time it seemed.  We worked inaugurations, ground breakings, and any other special events that came up, including a funeral for a former president.  We had VIPs from all over the world tour with us, we hosted luncheons, and we watched football games in the President’s boxes.  I made posters, name tags, place cards and countless lists; we took turns filling in at the Information Desk.  We drove General Authorities around in vans.  We arranged seating charts for fancy dinners and the regalia for dignitaries at graduation time.  I worked regular day hours, but when we had weekend and night games and dinners it got a little tricky with one car and a husband who worked odd hours across town.  It turned out to be an interesting job and great opportunity.  I felt extremely lucky.  But even as I was toying with the idea of going into Public Relations, I just knew my heart wasn’t in it.  I could never care the way I was supposed to.  I couldn’t understand why seating mattered that much—let them make new friends.  And I still don’t think position or status is all that important—we’re all just regular people.  I get that’s important to spell their names right, but I would’ve failed my clients on so many levels.

Somewhere in there I did an internship at the local health department.  The first (and I think only) time I was excited about my health major was one day when I had to call several people to check up on how they were doing with their goals.  I felt something when a lady on the other end actually felt encouraged and inspired because of a simple phone call.  I loved the idea of helping people be healthy, but I never ended up working in my field.

Unless you count the time I worked for a nutrition program at another university while my husband was in vet school.  (I don’t.)  He was able to work in the lab a bit in the beginning but not as they started their rotations.  I hated working.  Hated it.  I cried nearly every day inside, sometimes with tears, when I’d leave my little boy crying at the babysitter’s door.  Broke my heart in two.  I took three weeks off for the birth of my second baby.  The tasks were fine, but my heart was at home.  I finally got to stay home the last summer of vet school.  We took out loans and I didn’t care.  It was a luxury to be home with my two boys who were still so little.

Then finally my first real full-time job began and I was (mostly) in my glory.  It was so much harder than the others I’d had, the hours were relentless, the learning curve was steep, and I made more mistakes than in any of my other jobs before.  I was finally doing what I’d been training for all those years without realizing it, but that’s all a story for another day.