The Last Luxury

Last Saturday, when I was in Costco, I noticed they had signs everywhere: "Seasonal Work! Great Pay!" I assumed this was in Costco and not going around MacMansion neighborhoods to sell magazine subscriptions.

Watching my Visa balance climb from 0 to, um, a lot in the space of six months scares me badly. So what better way to make a little extra cash than to take on a job for the Christmas season?

I filled out the application Monday and last evening, found myself sitting in my usual Costco in one of the food court table (peppered liberally with hot dog relish), talking to Raul and John.

I was thinking, okay, maybe 20 hours a week. Yeah, I can probably do that. Yeah, yeah, I can. (I was lying to myself.)

When I asked Raul when I would be working, he said, "Okay, I'm thinking Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays from 6 pm - 11 pm." What? We have exceeded the sleeptytime limit. By nearly two hours. Still, it gave me a day in between to recover. "And on Saturdays and Sundays, at least eight hours. That is, eight hours on Saturday and eight hours on Sunday." And then, of course, go to Unnamed Co. at 8 am on Monday, only to report to Costco at 6 pm.

My extra-special, ultra-demanding job would be to load stuff from people's carts onto the cashier's conveyor belt. For eight hours a day. To move the line along.

We're talking a 31 hour week at Costco alone. Then Raul said, "Of course, the closer we get to Christmas, the more hours you can expect to work. Sometimes we're lucky to get out of here at 11, the closer we get to Christmas." Whoa. I've heard this before when I applied for a job at Macy's years ago. You may think your shift is over at 10, but in truth you have to stay an hour and a half later to get the place ready for the next day's Bacchanalia.

Shaken so much that I couldn't think straight, I agreed to be interviewed by Ben, the Uber Manager, today.

I will not be meeting Ben the Uber Manager today. I will call Raul this morning and politely decline.

The last luxury I have is time. And it's true that more often than not, I squander it, but it's mine to squander. If I want to lie on the couch in something approaching a catatonic state, then I will by God lie on the couch in a catatonic state.

This is the last thing I have to loll around in, in complete freedom. Take that one last thing away from me and you won't get catatonia, you will get Hell, unleashed.

When I got home, I was desperately confused. I'd just gotten a call from the vet's office, telling me that now Boris has a heart murmur. Boris is only ten years old. Gus's heart murmur is worse, but he's 13. Yes, it's time for me to make hard, horrible decisions.

The vet wants Boris and Gus to have a heart ultrasound. I don't think I can afford this. At minimum - and I will ask - it will likely cost at least $200. I'm sorry, my darling pussycats, but I think the gas and electric bills take precedence.

At least I think I've finally figured out where all these wild hair moments are coming from. They coming from desperation and fear and feeling cornered, and this is never a good place to start from.

But I am not letting my last luxury go. I'm holding onto it, tight.