As the semester winds down, Winter Break is fast approaching. I realize there still are two weeks of class left, and a long week and a half of finals. But in my mom's mind, as soon as I get home for Thanksgiving, it'll be time to start looking for a temporary Winter Break job.
Summer vacation or winter vacation, it makes no difference to my mom. As long as I have over three weeks away from school, it's my obligation to spend that time working. And I hate that.
It's not that I mind working, but the whole idea of summer jobs just seems corrupt to me.
Back in elementary school, summer vacation actually was a vacation. School was over, and the next three months would be spent playing sports, swimming, taking family trips and chasing the ice cream man. You can imagine my displeasure when high school came around. As if being assigned summer reading wasn't cruel enough, I now had to spend 35- to 40- hours a week employed.
It doesn't matter what you're doing or for whom you're working -- summer employment is just dreadful ... unless you somehow landed the coveted Swedish bikini inspector gig. That's doubtful though, because they haven't had an opening in years.
Through the past six years, I've had a taste of everything. I've been a courier, park ranger, camp counselor, receptionist and lifeguard. All have had their awful moments, but my first summer job was thoroughly and consistently painful.
Anyone who has worked retail will sympathize with me, as will anyone who has worked with children. By some miracle, I landed a job that blended those two thrilling fields together -- a position as sales associate and cashier at Toys R Us.
On the surface, you'd think it was a perfect place to work. I assumed I'd spend my days dancing on floor pianos, making sculptures with Legos and providing competition for customers trying out the latest video game system. Needless to say, the first day on the job really hit me hard. Management placed me in the infant department, where I learned everything anyone could possibly need to know about car seats, strollers, swings and cribs. I dealt with more pregnant women than any 16-year-old should ever have to. And I donned the worst uniform mankind has ever forced itself to wear.
It's hard to take yourself seriously when you're wearing a bright blue vest with Geoffrey the Giraffe on the back, holding hands with two children and skipping. Every time I put that vest on, I think a little piece of men everywhere died. I don't think I need to specify which piece that is.
Seriously, though, I might as well have worn a shirt with an arrow down the back, with the message, "Give wedgies here." That vest is now in pieces, rotting in the Fairfax County dump.
When I wasn't answering car seat safety questions or assembling cribs, my manager sent me to the front to be a cashier. That wouldn't have been a problem, but the check out lines were set up in the least sensible way. I was only allowed to scan items that had a bar code. If any item was missing its price tag or bar code, I had to phone a manager and wait for one to come punch some code in the register. That might seem simple enough, but managers always took at least five minutes to make their way to the register. That five minutes is an eternity when you're staring at a long line of angry people who want to know, "Hey, what's the hold up?" I would just sweat bullets, unable to do anything.
About a month or so into the job, it was time to take matters into my own hands. I decided that if people were lucky enough to find something without a bar code, they got that item for free. There were people who paid 25 cents for a Beanie Baby and a pack of gum. Hey, I couldn't scan it -- it must have been free! I don't know why else it would be missing a price tag. Toys R Us's fault -- not mine.
Before I got to this freebie glee, however, I almost didn't get the job. Company policy required all prospective employees to take a personality test. "Don't worry," the manager told me. "We just want to make sure you're not some psycho who's going to murder us all."
Naturally, I failed that test with flying colors. I believe my score was in the "serial killer" range. I passed the retest, but I think my initial failing was a blessing in disguise. I was never asked to wear the dreaded Geoffrey the Giraffe suit.
If I had wanted to be heckled and harassed by elementary school children, I would have been a camp counselor. That job would have to wait until the summer of 2000.
So if you're one of the lucky kids who actually gets a real vacation, be grateful. It's only a matter of time before we enter the real world, and vacations as we know them will be over. Just another part of growing up, I suppose. And yes, growing up can be really difficult, but take it from me. Being a "Toys R Us kid" isn't all it's cracked up to be.
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