Unemployable

A friend at a stone supplier I work with was venting about their struggles finding help. Jokingly, he asked if I wanted to fill out an application. I laughed and told him I’m unemployable.

He laughed too—maybe a little too readily. “Yeah,” he said, “after working solo for so long, you definitely are.”

I detected a hint of disdain in his laugh, but I took it as a badge of honor. The last thing I want is to be employed.

I don’t even like the term self-employed. I don’t want to work for anybody—especially me.

Saying you’re self-employed feels too much like having a job. A job where the office and the boss are both in your own head, nagging you to punch the clock and keep up with quotas. Worse, in this nightmare scenario, my boss and I are stuck in the same meat-suit 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

I don’t want a job. I want to work. I want to create, to contribute, to make money. But a job? No, thank you.

Self-directed? Absolutely.

Self-starter? On my good days.

Self-indulgent? Occasionally guilty.

Self-obsessed? I hope not.

But self-employed? There’s gotta be a better name for it.