Confidence Torpedo

I dreamed that, for some odd reason, I was looking for new gig. My real life, ultra splendiferous set up (working mostly from home doing design/layout with a little photography mixed in) didn't exist in SleepState Storyville.

I was psyched about new possibilities but the employment agency folk with whom I was speaking weren’t upbeat or encouraging. In fact, their collective tone was one of this is a waste of your time and ours.

What? I’m older, I’m deaf but I’m mega awesome PLUS! They hmmphed but allowed they had one possibility – a small print company in the Financial District. I wasn’t thrilled. The commute would be stupid rotten but I figured I’d give it a shot. Also too, the agency clearly didn’t believe in me so I wanted to be all gung-ho to shove that shit up their butts (that made sense in my dream!).
Dressed in a biz suit (!!! I’ve never owned one EVAH) and flats, I arrived downtown Boston. It was January – the streets and sidewalks were covered in slushy ice and snow. Also, in Phantasm World, the Financial District was on a steep hill. I figured I’d slip and fall a solid half dozen times before I found the office. I'd be a mess by the time I found the place.

The print shop was in a tall, crumbly structure set into the side of a very steep slope on Kilby near Water. After a long up and down hill, cold soggy climb, I finally found the shop’s entrance. The joint looked like it hadn’t been updated OR cleaned since the Johnson administration and appeared less organized than a rat’s nest after a hurricane.

I was seriously considering just walking out but, at that very moment, the boss’s assistant spotted me. Shit, now I have to go through with this and I already know that this isn't a good fit (to say the least).

The big boss was out for a bit but she could give me most of the lowdown before he returned. Turns out this wasn’t a design/layout gig. Nope, I’d be doing billing. In fact, she figured she’d give me some jobs to invoice to see how I’d do. Except…there was no set pricing. All jobs were billed at cost-plus. How the fuck was I supposed to know what their production costs were?

Panic bloomed. This isn’t my thing! I’m a designer not an accountant!

I could’ve sprinted right out the door. Why didn’t I? Every additional moment spent in that tornadoed office further ignited my near overwhelming desire to organize, clean, systematize (!!!) and just generally smarten the shop up. I kept seeing new bits in dire need of doctoring and debugging.

How’d this all play out? Dunno. I woke, still horrified by the mess and def not sure that I would've/could’ve got gone while the getting was good. The siren song of successfully fixing such an horrific mess (thus making life better for ALL!) was strong. I also felt mondo insulted that the employment agency viewed me as no better, no more professional than this utterly chaotic, wickedly slipshod, I-can’t-believe-they’re-still-in-business business.

Why, in Dreamsville anyway, am I putting myself in such an awful, low rent position?