Hi ho! Hi ho! It's off to work I go!

When I was 15, my mother issued an ultimatum: either you get a job, or you go live with your father.  Logically, I knew it was an empty threat and that she'd never send me to live with a man who had shown little to no interest in me for the majority of my life; however, it put enough fear in me to get my ass out pounding the pavement.

I can't even begin to recall how many applications I completed or how many resumes I forked over.  I know it was many; I know as the summer wore on, I became more demoralized every time the phone didn't ring - I started to think there was something inherently wrong with me.  It was my first taste of the unfairness that is "experience required": how on earth was I ever going to gain experience to get a job when no one would take a chance on me?  That being said, I had uttered the spoiled brat decree that I would NOT work at McDonald's.

Silly, silly little girl.

After much *ahem* prodding from my mother, I took my resume in to the nearest location and dutifully asked to speak to a manager.  When she came up to the counter, she decided to interview me on the spot.  It was a short interview, but a good one: she told me that she had a few more to do, but that I could expect a phone call within the next couple of days.

Two days later, I paced nervously beside the phone.  All of a sudden, the place I was too good for was the only place I wanted to work.  I stayed at home, inside, the entire duration of that sunny Saturday until Mom insisted I accompany the rest of the family out for dinner.  When we got home, I raced to the answering machine, only to have my heart drop to see no flashing indicator.

I thought I must not be good enough after all.

After moping around for the next two days, Mom insisted suggested I go back and let them know that I was still interested in a job if they were hiring in the future.  I trudged off in the hot summer sun, feeling like an enormous tool - I was preemptively embarrassed by what I was going to do (little did my 15-year old know-it-all self know just how important following up would be).

My face started to burn as the same manager who interviewed me approached the counter.  Haltingly, I managed to stammer out the bit about still being interested in work in the future as I thrust my resume at her as if it was on fire.  She looked at me, puzzled, before asking if I had not received her message.

Her message?

It would seem that she left the message at a wrong number.  I had gotten the job, and orientation was THAT DAY - in 20 minutes, actually: was I able to stay?

WAS I?!?  I tried to maintain my glee as I hot-footed it out of the building and walked until I found a pay phone so I could tell my mom.  It very well may have been the first (but certainly not LAST) time I admitted she was right.

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