Day Three- Sixty Days A Job or my Sanity which will be First?

Day Three:  The headset for my phone is broken.  A few years ago I suffered nerve damage from clenching the phone betwixt my ear and hunched shoulder while tapping furiously on my keyboard, hoping to catch every word that the brand manager uttered.  This unhealthy position sustained over 10 years – at 13 hours a day – resulted in PAIN! Yes, I was a throbbing, pins and needles mess from the base of my skull through my torso and left hand.  My left index finger is still numb from the injury.  My goal is to replace one shoddy, plastic headset made in China, for another.  Apparently these gizmos last only about six months.

PC Richards sells me on a headset that they say is indestructible and made of hemp so it is guaranteed to last.  Either that or I can use it as a colorful bracelet after it has conked out.  I briskly navigate the walk from East 86th street to my apartment on East 93rd.  The headset does not fit into my phone port.  Anger fuels my return jog to PC Richards.  I am told that I need a micro chip converter that I can purchase at Radio Shack.  Radio Shack has never heard of such a device and they sell me a cheap, plastic headset that I had wanted to avoid in the first place.  I return my original purchase to PC Richards, now angry that I made three trips and was misadvised during each sojourn.  Another brisk job back to my apartment where the head Day Three:  The headset for my phone is broken.  A few years ago I suffered nerve damage from clenching the phone betwixt my ear and hunched shoulder while tapping furiously on my keyboard, hoping to catch every word that the brand manager uttered.  This unhealthy position sustained over 10 years – at 13 hours a day – resulted in PAIN! Yes I was a throbbing, pins and needles mess from the base of my skull through my torso and left hand.  My left index finger is still numb from the injury.  My goal is to replace one shoddy, plastic headset made in China, for another.  Apparently these gizmos last only about six months.

PC Richards sells me on a headset that they say is indestructible and made of hemp so it is guaranteed to last.  Either that or I can use it as a colorful bracelet after it has conked  out.  I briskly navigate the walk from East 86th street to my apartment on East 93rd.  The headset does not fit into my phone port.  Anger fuels my return jog to PC Richards.  I am told that I need a micro chip converter that I can purchase at Radio Shack.  Radio Shack has never heard of such a device and they sell me a cheap, plastic headset that I had wanted to avoid in the first place.  I return my original purchase to PC Richards, now angry that I made three trips and was misadvised during each sojourn.  Another brisk job back to my apartment where the headset works, rather badly.  The volume is insufficient and I need an engineer to explain how the ear piece can be affixed to my right ear.  Two hours after the start of my day I am ready to call brand managers, secure appointments, send media kits and furiously browse job openings.

I vacillate between confidence and despair.  I ignore the commission only jobs.  Twenty years in the work force does not qualify me as an intern.  I’d like to meet the genius that created commission only.  This infuriates me because sales requires tremendous skill, savvy, and excellent verbal and written skills.  Whoever deemed that this time and effort should be donated?  I wonder, do they work for free?

Several hours later the pain in my head is not a consequence of the headset but anxiety.  I go to the gym, passing the ASPCA on the way.  I stop to commune with the cats who lounge gracefully in the window, like prostitutes in Amsterdam.  Everyone is looking for something.  I wish that I could adopt more cats, but I am considering a $4.00 falafel for dinner which suits my current budget.  I work the stationary bike on a high tension setting for 50 minutes before producing my pink boxing gloves and rush to the punching bag, which has been removed.  My ill humor and pent up aggression are not mollified or amused.  I am trying to be productive and remain positive, I need to punch something.  I saunter into a busy room where people are repelling themselves from the wall, lifting weights, and there is my punching bag, laying like a beached manatees across the floor while an enthusiastic woman heaves it to a standing position and pushes it against the wall.  Okay, maybe I can punch her in the head.

I need to get a trainer, some weird shit is going on and I want to be part of it.  I want to learn how to use all of the available tools.  Here’s to another round of resumes, punch – punch – here’s to another round of interviews and hearing that I’m overly qualified, under qualified, or that my hair is the wrong color – punch – punch – slam – here’s to another day on the job trail.  Knockout!set works, rather badly.  The volume is insufficient and I need an engineer to explain how the ear piece can be affixed to my right ear.  Two hours after the start of my day I am ready to call brand managers, secure appointments, send media kits and furiously browse job openings.

I vacillate between confidence and despair.  I ignore the commission only jobs.  Twenty years in the work force does not qualify me as an intern.  I’d like to meet the genius that created commission only.  This infuriates me because sales requires tremendous skill, savvy, and excellent verbal and written skills.  Whoever deemed that this time and effort should be donated?  I wonder, do they work for free?

Several hours later the pain in my head is not a consequence of the headset but anxiety.  I go to the gym, passing the ASPCA on the way.  I stop to commune with the cats who lounge gracefully in the window, like prostitutes in Amsterdam.  Everyone is looking for something.  I wish that I could adopt more cats, but I am considering a $4.00 falafel for dinner which suits my current budget.  I work the stationary bike on a high tension setting for 50 minutes before producing my pink boxing gloves and rush to the punching bag, which has been removed.  My ill humor and pent up aggression are not mollified or amused.  I am trying to be productive and remain positive, I need to punch something.  I saunter into a busy room where people are repelling themselves from the wall, lifting weights, and there is my punching bag, laying like a beached manatees across the floor while an enthusiastic woman heaves it to a standing position and pushes it against the wall.  Okay, maybe I can punch her in the head.

I need to get a trainer, some weird shit is going on and I want to be part of it.  I want to learn how to use all of the available tools.  Here’s to another round of resumes, punch – punch – here’s to another round of interviews and hearing that I’m overly qualified, under qualified, or that my hair is the wrong color – punch – punch – slam – here’s to another day on the job trail.  Knockout!

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