Musings | Dream Jobs and Child Labor Laws

A good friend of mine and I often talk about all the jobs we’d like if we didn’t have our current means of employment. Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love my job and feel more-than-fortunate to have it. In fact, I thank God, the Universe, and anyone else who might be listening on a regular basis that I’m employed doing something I adore; however, I often find myself yearning to work at the corner Shell station for a few weeks, wait tables at a truck stop in Tucumcari, New Mexico for the summer, or pour drinks at a local bar in Costa Rica, well, forever.

I imagine myself wearing Clark Kent glasses, a tank top, skirt, and Converse with countless Island-type bracelets adorning sun-burned arms.

Oh, how I hope there are more lives than merely this one…

I recently asked a friend which job he’d like to do if he weren’t currently employed in a rather hot Wall-Street—esque position.

Without hesitation, “Snowboard instructor” was his reply.

Oh, how we all dream.

All of this “dream jobs for those who have dream jobs” talk got  me thinking about my first job, and though I’ve already posted on this topic in 2008 (damn, I’ve been doing this blog thing way too long), I return to it tonight.

My first job was hardly a dream job. No, my first job was the “Violation of Child Labor Laws” sort.

Scene: The Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta.
Circa: Elementary school.
Venue: TJ Cinnamon Rolls.*

The owner of TJ Cinnamon Rolls, Benjamin, fancied my older sister or perhaps she fancied him. Either way, in the midst of all this fancying, Benjamin decided he’d set up shop at the annual Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta and serve tiny cinnamon rolls in cones. A Cinna-Cone, if you will.

Thus, Benjamin was in need of underpaid but willing laborers to take orders, accept payment, and place each tiny cinnamon roll into its respective cone.

And who better to handle the tiny cinnamon rolls?
My older sister? No, of course not.
But what about her younger sisters?
Fabulous idea, Benjamin!

So, at the pre-dawn hour of 3:30 Ante Meridiem, Megaan and I were awakened and driven from the comfort of our home nestled at the base of the Sandia mountains to Balloon Fiesta Park. We were escorted bleary-eyed across the dazzling display of balloons, and quickly hidden from view in the TJ Cinnamon Rolls stand.

Here, for hours we worked, our tiny finger-tips melting away as we moved each hot, tiny cinnamon roll into a cone, one after another, hour after hour.

“Please, sir, can I have some, more,” I deliriously thought to myself as I hummed “Food, glorious, food! Come everyone, have some!”

Just when I thought I could take no more, we were told our shift was over, and we could go and look at the balloons with all the other children. This, however, did not appeal to me, as all I truly wanted was my bed.

When I arrived home, my mother cheerfully asked with a smile, “How was your first day at work?”

“I am not cut out for manual labor,” I replied, “I’m not going back.”

“You are way too dramatic,” she replied with an I’m worried about your future kind of look.

So, for the next two mornings, I slept in while my younger sister returned to TJ Cinnamon Rolls. She actually liked it. This was hard for me to accept, but even more difficult to accept was the check she received for her 3 days of hard labor compared with my measly check for 1 day.

A lesson in Capitalism learned, I vowed to return the next year.

The next year, however, did not return the opportunity. My older sister had moved on, and Benjamin wanted nothing more to do with her money-hungry little sisters.

And where might Benjamin be today?

Probably off somewhere eating Cinna-Cones while reading Oliver Twist.

As for myself, I’m grading essays on a Saturday night, dreaming of Tucamcari or Costa Rica.

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