Uniforms, Ghosts, and a Borrowed Buick: My Twenties in a Nutshell

In my twenties, I was broken. I didn’t know it then, but looking back, it’s written all over the memories, like a neon sign blinking “unhealed.” My confidence? Nonexistent. My self-worth? On backorder. And my sense of direction, professionally and personally? Let’s just say... under construction.

I believed the only jobs I could get were the ones anyone could get, waiting tables, working registers, mopping floors. If it came with a uniform and a manager who was mostly just hoping you'd show up, I was in. And to be fair, I was dependable. Until I wasn’t.

I floated from job to job, ghosting them all. Literally. No two weeks’ notice. No awkward goodbyes. Just... poof. Gone. Sometimes, I imagine the managers thought I’d been abducted.

One of the more “creative” jobs was at The Oldest House in St. Augustine, Florida. I was a tour guide, which was fun until I had given the same thirty-minute script on loop like a haunted Alexa. So a few of us got inventive. We created “Maria,” the ghostly lady of the house, and added some paranormal flair to our tours, open cabinet doors, disappearing vases, flower arrangements relocating on their own.

Tourists were shook. We were proud. That is, until management found out. Let’s just say... I wasn’t ghosting this one. I was dismissed.

Next stop? Wendy’s. My favorite place for a burger and fries turned into my next uniformed adventure. I was assigned to the salad bar (yes, kids, Wendy’s used to have a salad bar), and tasked with scrubbing sidewalks with bleach. My one pair of navy slacks quickly became polka-dotted casualties. No matter how much I explained the daily bleaching ruined my pants, management wasn’t having it. So... I went to the bathroom and slipped out the back door.

Again.

At one point, my closet looked like a Halloween costume aisle, Wendy’s smock, hardware apron, tour guide vest, cashier polos. My friends joked I could dress up as a new career path every day of the month.

Speaking of the hardware store... that job taught me that there are way too many sizes of nuts, bolts, and screws in this world. I hated everything about it, especially using a schematic chart just to ring up a bolt.

And then there was the car incident.

I was borrowing a neighbor’s car while mine was in the shop (on indefinite financial hold). Late for work, I decided to eat a protein cookie while flying down a curvy back road. One bite turned into one giant mailbox coming at me like a freight train. I swerved. The car fishtailed. Then it rolled, not once, not twice, but like a laundry cycle gone rogue.

I came to in the back seat (no seat belt, of course), and some poor man was yelling, “Are you okay?!”

“Yeah,” I answered, “but I could use a little help getting out.”

Together, we rocked the car back on its wheels like it was a Sunday afternoon lawn chore. One tire was blown, but we changed it. I thanked him, got in, and limped the car home, shaking like a unbalanced washing machine mid-spin.

And there she was, my sweet neighbor, on her porch. Watching the return of her car-turned-yard-ornament.

Smoke hissed from the hood. Grass clumps were stuck to the side like nature’s version of a bumper sticker. Her mouth hung open.

I stepped out of the car, took one look at her horrified face, and her giant pink rollers, perfectly scarfed in place like a crown of suburban judgment, and knew exactly what I had to do: cue the tears, throw in a limp, and look as pitiful as humanly possible.

Between dramatic sniffles, I pointed to the dented hood and whispered, “It fishtailed out of nowhere… I barely made it out alive.”

Then, as I brushed some weeds off the bumper and gave her my best innocent smile, I added:

“It’s mostly still in one piece… though it pulls a little to the left when you brake. How ’bout I replace the spare tire for ya?”