Reasons a J-O-B Isn’t for Me, Ranked

Enough with learning new things already

It’s that time again — the money is running low, like a parched lake with a pale bathtub ring or the space between a pregnant ant and the pavement.

Low, like hanging fruit. The sour kind that puckers you right up and makes you scream:

“When will my lotto numbers hit?”

I’ve gotta get off my writer’s ass and make some money. This isn’t my first rodeo — even though I’m usually a clown hiding in a barrel — so I know how to get a job.

They say it's just like online dating in 2022.

Oh, Jesus, Joseph, Mary, and the Holy Ghost, say it ain’t so!

You log in and upload your resume, then prattle on about how you are 10 years younger and 20 pounds lighter than reality, and why you love sunset beach strolls.

Are beach strolls and sunsets still a thing? Or am I remembering that from a list of turn-ons by Playboy centerfolds?

I need a J-O-B, but most of the cells in my body resist like a thirsty horse who refuses to drink water.

I’ve been mulling over why, and it turns out I’m no longer a Young.

Gravity and wisdom have conspired to quell my lust for employment.

1. Most jobs don’t allow naps

Last night, I awoke at 2:43 am. Who the hell knows why. I lay there thinking I’d drift off again, figuring the cool room, total darkness, and warm bed would cradle me like a gentle field of poppies.

I should’ve swallowed actual opioids instead.

They say being Woke is in vogue, but for this old gal, the dark days of Archie Bunker and my only career option as a Housewife are far superior.

I’m Woke AF, as the kids say, and it interferes with showing up at a J-O-B every day.

I’ve been awake since 2:43 am and I look forward to a nap wherever and wherever I damn well want.

2. I’ve always disliked authority but now I’m prone to showing it

Bosses are usually bad at telling other people what to do.

It’s ironic, exasperating, and makes me roll my eyes at inopportune moments. In the past, I had more control over my face.

These nimrods got promoted through a mysterious combo of competence, ass-kissing, and fabulous hair.

They don’t get any training at boss school, which is a magical place I just made up like Hogwarts but without spells or familiars. Lacking guidance, most managers fall back on what they learned as the oldest child of seven and treat you like you haven’t figured out how to dress yourself.

I’ve got a penchant for attracting multiple bosses, like an old lady who tips over into a crocodile-infested swamp in Florida.

3. Not working causes people to enjoy life-WTF?

In the absence of full-time work outside the home — Lord, what a dreadful string of words — I’ve begun doing things I like.

I help out at church events, even though I’m an atheist. I don’t mind cleaning up and washing dishes, because I have no boss and I can quit anytime.

I’m in a play and sure, it’s time-consuming and I can’t quit and I’ll take on more work than I’d like or am good at, but compared to a J-O-B this gig is sublime.

4. Olds can’t text with their thumbs, and we don’t care

I’m not an Old-Old, more of a Middle-Old, so I can use a computer.

I’m not an idiot, though, and I know I’m slow with tasks, including learning new software and texting while I drive. It’s the nature of life. We shouldn’t be riding Harleys at 60, and we don’t click with all ten digits like the Youngs.

I’m not going to be able to compete with that 23-year-old content creator in Manhattan who was profiled in NYT about her iced-coffee habit. I lack many of the skills the cubicle farm overlords require. I can’t remember the difference between a “grande” and a “tall” coffee and I don’t give two iced effs.

5. I resent being judged accurately

Look, I’m old enough to know I believe God is a dolphin. I don’t want new ideas. I like believing my tidy little story about the meaning of life.

I don’t want to learn more about myself and be forced to stare into the gaping darkness of my lifelong character defects.

6. Leaving the house in the morning ROFLOL

I’m applying for remote work, partly because I know it will take months to find a remote writing job and thereby delaying the hellish prospect of earning a paycheck.

If no one will hire me for a remote content writing job, I’ll need to leave the house early in the morning, or what the kids call:

“Commuting to work.”

Stumbling out to your car, clutching your coffee like it's a light saber, then strapping yourself in before swerving down the asphalt to the ice-cold heart of an office building or worse, a retail outlet.

The Youngs hate commuting so much that they created scooters for adults!

I recall the millions of dollars I spent buying coffee and breakfast when I commuted in city traffic, just to numb the pain and dread.

7. Everyone’s on drugs — so what?

Some of these wankers want you to take — and PASS — a %^$# drug test. Screw that! I’m old — drugs are the best possible choice in my situation.

This nixes Walmart as a viable employer. Since they pay nearly $12 an hour to start, I considered Walmart for about a nanosecond. Then I remembered reading the book Nickel and Dimed and clicked on Indeed again.

8. Facing icy-cold reality

On the one hand, I’m obscenely blessed with a house, running water, AC, heat, and a husband who takes out the trash with 80% accuracy.

Thus, I have no complaints.

On the other hand, I want to travel and if I live to be 85 I’ll run out of money. Sure, I enjoy foraging for mushrooms but if I had to, the forest would lose its luster.

If I get a job, I have to pop the reality bubble, which feels like lancing a giant boil located squarely on the ass of humanity.

I’ll have to admit I need to plan for the future, like a real adult.

Final Jobstructions

I’ve had so many dang jobs. If you doubt me, read the About Me narrative. Your head will spin, your guts will roil, and your fingers will scratch your head.

Ironically, or possibly sadistically, I live in a gated community of Republicans. These mutants had one job they did for 35 years, and now they play golf all day and take river cruises in Europe.

I don’t blurt out my backstory. I’m also considering reading up on river cruises so I can pretend I’ve taken one.

I’ve had 80 jobs or more. I posed as an anthropologist in the field, armed with a pen and notebook and rudimentary training. I observed the ways people made a living. That’s how I got through the working years.

After a few weeks or months, or a few days in the case of cleaning houses, I fled like a thief in the night.

That’s the trouble with getting old. You run out of places to run.

Want an email heads-up for new articles? Click Me.

Want to join Medium? Click Me.

Jean Campbell recently started her first Substack newsletter to laser focus on getting her book, City of Lies: A Street Hustler’s Omaha Journey published.