My alarm went off at 6:15 this morning. It felt like my first day of high school or something comparable. An exciting, ominous unknown. I walked to the bathroom in the partial blindess of my contact lensless eyes and decided I should kick the day off with the shower. Though I could not predict much of what the day would unfold, I COULD exercise control over my hair.

You see, I have only once before had a “real job.” And then I was over my head. I was a middle school teacher for three months, and collapsed under the weight of the realization that it wasn’t the career I wanted. Not even for another day. Three months after a daily fight with that realization, I quit.

Today, as I showered and packed my lunchbox– yogurt, a peach, an almond butter and raspberry preserves Ezekiel sprouted grain wrap, and curried rice with, ahem, burnt cashews and raisins– I wondered about how this phenomena would feel again. To feel gainfully employed with a full time schedule. Like a woman on the cusp of falling in love for the first time in years.

Except no love for me. Just the glory of being a temp. A temp assisting in medical records at the UNCW Health Center, that is.

I was not really nervous at all today as I walked in to meet the Health Center supervisor. The office was more or less what I expected. Women with names like “Sue” and “Tammy,” buzzing like bees between piles of papers and telephones, while doctors in white coats studied charts and strolled from patient to patient. “Baby,” “Honey,” and “Precious” were often drawled to address coworkers and patients. This is cute I suppose, but it became confusing. I would have to turn often to see whether or not I was the “Sugar” needed in certain cases or whether the generic salutation was intended for one of the other women. I’m all for the sweetness, but an intonation system in which changes in pitch change the word’s meaning, like those used in certain Asian languages, would be helpful.

I wasn’t too nervous when the supervisor showed me the polychromatic walls of medical files that would be my job to pull from and replenish. But the nervousness finally did set in when I was given my first real task. It seemed so simple: To find twenty medical charts and stuff them with corresponding lab reports. Only twenty.

I started in the medical records room. Found about four. “Ahem, [Supervisor], I didn’t find very many.” “Did you check in the nurse’s station?” “Oh my, well no I didn’t!” Found two more. Six out of twenty. That seemed pretty good. I brought them to the supervisor to be processed, but before I could even hand them over she said “No no! I’m not going to process them until you’ve done them all.”

Then the panic started to kick in. “Um, is there anywhere else the rest could be?” “Check in the doctor’s offices.” The doctors intimidated me, floating through the halls in white coats. The supervisor showed me their offices. She even drew me a map. Cautiously I walked from office to office, map in hand. It felt strange rummaging for folders in a professional’s office. One of the doctors mistook me for a student. Another seemed taken aback when I walked into her office to check for folders. I returned only a couple folders richer.

I walked past the offices probably three more times. With each new lap, I grew increasingly nervous, as I remembered the supervisor’s words– “No no! I’m not going to process them until you’ve done them all.”

I finally gave up and admitted it to her. “Listen, I don’t know where else they could be.” She asked a staff member to help. I watched in disbelief as she found almost all of the remaining folders in places I’d already looked. “Oh wow…I looked there! Man! I just…I mean…I can’t believe I didn’t find them!”

I felt miniscule. It’s finding folders, Glo. Not earning your M.D.

But I pressed on. I knew that if I made it through lunch, I could do this thing. I was asked to do all sorts of small tasks. I don’t mind being a gopher. I think I like the burdenlessness of it. You are told what to do, mostly, so you don’t have the pressure of deciding.

I sat outside on a bench eating my lunch, grateful I’d survived half the day. I’m a temp. I’m a temp. I’m an OFFICE TEMP, for crying out loud. So strange. My creative brain was in uncharted territory.

The remainder of the day was spent entering data and an hour and a half’s worth of putting away cards in alphabetical order in the appropriate rolodex. By the end, I was literally talking to myself outloud so I could pull through.

It doesn’t seem like a big deal to most people probably. A temp position in an office. But for me it was pretty big.

It reminded me of what I can and can’t bear doing. I wondered if God created people to do what I did today. Like, if that’s what he purposed for them to do. Not saying there is anything wrong with that. But it’s hard for my mind to wrap around, and even harder for my heart.  Maybe the question of vocational purpose and “what we are meant to do” is mainly a western one.  Certainly the boy in India who sells corn and grows up to marry his niece doesn’t squabble with those questions.  Or maybe he does.

I don’t know.

But whether or not it’s a life reality or just a western reality, it is, in one respect or another, a reality.  So to finish addressing it, I realize that there are a lot of wonderful office jobs that don’t include staring at rolodexes.  But I suppose that today just reminded me to stick with my dreams.  It’s easy to give up, to work for thirty years in an environment different from what you want, simply because it comes with more predictability.  I’m tempted to do this.  Days like today help me snap out of it.

I think the job lasts a week. And I’m grateful for it.  And by the end of the day, I cheered at the increased speed with which I filed away folders.

So I’m happy, just so long as I’m a temp at this.

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