On Why I Am Satisfied With My Less than Ideal Job

I’ve been fired from an assortment of jobs in my life.

I was very young the first time. Barely eighteen years old, a wide eyed and callow boy who regarded the world as fair.

I know. Ha. Ha. Ha.

The position was temporary, and required that I spend two of the three summer months performing data entry for some corporation in the downtown area of my hometown. My original thought was that the temporary job would act as a “foot in the door” for me, as well as being a resume enhancer. But I came to abhor the job after the first few days, and it wasn’t much longer before my disdain was reflected in my performance. The data entry was boring and rote, a sieve for draining the soul of hope and optimism. I often abandoned my work station before my shift ended.

Although a byproduct of substandard training and office ennui, too many data entry errors rankled the nerves of the micromanager who sat just behind me. The cranky, white haired, old bitty boss of three weeks decided against waiting until the position had run its course. She dismissed me as soon as I arrived to work on a Wednesday morning. I wasn’t too fazed by being let go though, as I was on my way to matriculating into Boston University during the upcoming fall.