I had an interview this past Thursday. I wouldn’t have applied for the job if I didn’t think I could do it and might have a slight chance of enjoying it. However, once I started talking to the gentlemen conducting the interview, I started to feel my sureness slipping. With every word they spoke, I drifted farther away from the Island of Confidence. By the end of the interview, I’d floated miles away, couldn’t even see the beach, and I felt bad for wasting their time. I also felt like an idiot because I knew what they’re probably thinking. Why did that girl even bother? Wow. What a waste of time.
This happens just about every time I go in for an interview. If it doesn’t, it’s because I really don’t want the job in the first place. The questions asked I approach calmly, coolly, and almost always get a job offer—an offer I always turn down. I know. I don’t make any sense to me either. I mean, I get why I nail those interviews where I’m relaxed and feeling like nothing important hangs in the balance. But why do I even apply if I know I don’t really want the job? Maybe it’s because I need the ego boost of knowing that someone still finds me employable, but more likely it’s that those jobs lie within my comfort zone. When I apply for something outside of my comfort zone, that’s when I flounder and sink, miles from shore with the Island of Confidence a mere dot on the horizon.
Unfortunately, I have a comfort zone that lies in the least lucrative positions. My bar is set low. But how do I get comfortable with bumping that bar higher? How do I build myself a house among the trees on the Island of Confidence and live there? Well, I’m doggy paddling through the waves, heading back toward land. It will take me a while to get there. I’m not a good swimmer. But I can see the beach and I know just where I’ll set up residence.
There are days I think I have this all figured out and I know what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to be when I grow up. Then there are days like today, and days like last Friday that tell me I’m completely wrong about having a clue.
The new year is a fresh start for a lot of people. Not me. I spend all year scrutinizing my choices, making resolutions I never keep, feeling like I need to make my life better. The new year is just more of the same. There is no discernible difference in my anxiety levels, my drive or lack thereof, in say, June compared to December and the beginning of January. It’s all the same. One chaotic “What the hell am I gonna do?”
Very recently, I considered taking my cleaning job and making it my “real” job. What I mean by that is promoting my cleaning service and treating it like a small business instead of a side job while I work on my writing. I’ve been looking for a full-time job or a decent paying part-time gig, so I’m in the market to work more than I currently am but I’m not having much luck landing an interview, let alone a job. I’m good at the cleaning thing and I have no doubt that if I really threw myself into building a business around it, I could get enough jobs to pay the bills and then some. Then I think about the downsides.
Though I excel at pleasing my current clients with excellent customer service and perfection driven cleanliness, the work is hard. It’s downright exhausting in some cases. I still want to write in my free time and I’m afraid that if I take on several more jobs, I’ll be too tired. Not like now—how I’m always so wide awake. *YAAAAAAAWN*
Then there’s the reality that I try to ignore and that’s that I have terrible allergies to pretty much everything that a cleaning job has to offer: dust and pet dander. And though it’s not an allergy, I have sensitivity to strong cleaners, probably because my sinuses are already inflamed and downright pissed off at me just from everyday breathing. I suffer through every day and most of my jobs aren’t very sneeze inducing, at least not anymore. I have the dust under control in almost every case. It’s that one case where there is absolutely NOTHING I can do to keep the dust at bay that makes me reconsider my business venture. I assure you that it’s not just the dust.
Today, I almost saw the junk of the son of my ultra-dusty client. I’d gone around and poured BLUE toilet bowl cleaner into all four toilets and let it sit. After some time, I began to clean them. When I got back to the son’s toilet, he was standing there, peeing, looking out the window, with the door open.
“Oh, Geez!” I said, turning quickly back the way I’d come. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
Later, in the kitchen, he said, “Sorry. I forgot you were here today.”
I assured him it was fine and really it was. I didn’t actually get a glimpse of anything. I also understood that with the holiday, he could’ve easily forgotten what day it was. I felt like it was Saturday all day today, when in fact, it’s definitely Friday. I can only assume that he didn’t look into the toilet bowl to aim and see the blue cleaner, put two and two together, and realize I was there. Or perhaps he was too tired to notice.
This near eyeful isn’t really the issue. Beyond the uncontrollable dust, the job is very physically taxing as I clean at a breakneck speed for four hours just so I’m not cheating myself out of money. I finished almost a half hour late today because everyone was home and my routine was knocked off kilter. That’s time I won’t be paid for. On top of never actually finishing in the agreed upon four hours, it’s not really worth the 30 minute drive or the level of cleaning I have to do every week. The amount of work I put into this job is the same as I devote to my monthly jobs that take from four to six hours. Last week, after spending a full 8 hours there helping to prepare for a holiday family visit, I left with a sore throat, cough, and a splotchy rash down my neck, not to mention, a gargle-worthy amount of phlegm. I took two Benadryl and went to bed pretty early that night. These are the things that make me consider that my future might not be in the cleaning industry.
I can’t load myself down with exhausting jobs if I want to be able to pursue writing at the same time. I also can’t do a job that literally makes me sick. I feel like signing up for more jobs potentially like this one could be bad for my health. Getting a sinus infection every month because I expose myself to what I know is bad for me, well, that’s just crazy. What’s really disappointing is that I know I’d be good at it. I know I’d make a name for myself cleaning.
Such is the internal battle waging as of late. If it’s not this, it’ll be something else. There is no peace in my mind. I suppose that’s one significant reason why I write. That, and it doesn’t make me sneeze.