I like my job. I really do. It’s been a second home to me throughout my college days and beyond.
Work is the place where I catch up with many locals who I see daily or rarely in my little adopted hometown. Work is the place where I am enlightened about world politics and local gossip. Work is the place where I do most of my baking, and — in between all the baking and barista-ing — it’s the place where I noodle over budget wedding plans.
Yes, I do like my job, but I am compelled to venture out on a procrastinated quest to find what my sister dubs “a real job.” (Those student loans of mine will only stay deferred for so long.)
It’s scary out there on the great job hunt. I’m left to wonder if my decade plus of customer service skills and undergrad degree are enough to keep my resumé afloat in a turbulent sea of applicants. That and I think I misspelled resumé on a recent cover letter I sent out. Resumé or resume? Does it really matter? Will they even notice or care? The stickler in me, that persnickety student of linguistics and once fine sidekick editor says “yes, yes, it does matter,” but the technophobic spoken word poet in me says “who cares if you hit Option E or not when they can still understand what you’re getting at?”
I would love it if, when I find that “real job” my sister keeps reminding me to get [although she’s sending me links to very, very unrealistic jobs for me — police dispatcher, really?!], if I could still work at my barista job every once in a while. That way from time to time I could still keep up with all the local gossip, make myself a nice cappuccino, and come home smelling of coffee and peanut butter cookies.