Before I became a full-time writer, most of my primary income between the ages of 18 and 25 came from the service industry. You may be shocked to learn that I was a terrible busboy, waiter, food runner, and service bartender. It's a first-impression business, and I never figured out how to endear myself to my shift managers and, most importantly, the customers, especially the impatient ones.
But I'd when I was about 24 I began to regularly string for local weeklies in Bucks County and Montgomery County—zoning boards, pie-eating contests, new wellness center openings. After a few months of that I finally landed a full-time newspaper job in East Brunswick, New Jersey. The problem was I was still living with my parents in Ambler, Pa., so my commute each day was almost 60 miles to cover the zoning boards, pie-eating contests, and new wellness center openings in some of the dreariest townships in North Jersey. It was a miserable existence—I didn't enjoy the work. Still, I was writing, and I had a business card that said "Reporter" and a phone number with an extension attached to it. The pay was $18k per year. I spent the majority of it on gas.
Most of my high school and college friends were already full-time grownups by then. They had jobs that they worked hard at five days per week so they could live their lives with the people they loved. I was unavailable on most weekends for golfing or bar-hopping with them because I was usually waiting tables. I could sense that they all shared unkind opinions about my life choices when I was not around. You just know these things.
But resentment is a helluva drug and one day, I hoped I'd make enough money to feel respected by my friends—accomplished even. But I would have to write for a high-profile publication so everyone's parents could read my stories each month. Maybe I could make $60-$70k doing that? And then I'd have everything that I wanted and finally be able to live.
We can skip ahead 14 years: I'm sitting inside an unfurnished temporary office with the newly-appointed CEO of Spin Media, and he's offered me their top editorial director position with a starting salary of $250k. But I confidently countered—$475k and six months severance guaranteed.
I wanted an eye-popping number commensurate with what I believed was my extraordinary talent as a manager, editor, and talent developer for online media properties. (But I failed to mention my extraordinary talent as an HR nightmare, an irresponsible cad, and a conspicuous drug user.)
The high salary was supposed to compensate for all the self-worth that I'd never acquired. I wanted that salary because it would be a big enough number to show up at the 25-year reunion with, and make my friends understand why I waited tables and drove to East Brunswick every day while they were out working for pharmaceutical sales companies or teaching Social Studies. That high salary would also compensate for the loss I felt no longer had those solid friendships.
And guess what—I got it. It was a $250k base salary, and the rest of it was carved out in chunks as part of a quarterly "signing bonus."
Some people are built for that high salary, but I was not. I was clueless and irresponsible from day one. My first paycheck—which I assumed would be in the $20,000 range came back well under that. When I asked accounting what was up, it turned out that I'd also accidentally signed up for the maximum Health Savings Account donation in addition to getting the premium insurance plan. Plus, the higher tax bracket.
As much as I wanted the job and that salary to be real, I knew the flip-flop-wearing CEO who hired me was more delusional than I was. He was fired a few weeks after I started. I was canned about a month after that. The six-month severance I thought I'd so smartly locked in—the checks stopped after a couple months, right before Spin Media liquidated. I had to borrow several times to pay rent for the next few months.
Then, the final karma came later: In December 2015, I came home from rehab to a pile of unopened mail, including one ominous-looking envelope from the IRS. Inside was a tax bill for $44,000 for unreported income I'd earned at Spin Media. The high salary never compensate for anything. I was mor lost than ever.
****
I've mentioned the book "Ambition Monster" several times here. Since it's finally out into the world (and getting great reviews), it's about time to discuss it further.
Right off the bat, I've lived a very parallel life to its author, Jennifer Romolini. We're both about the same age, grew up outside of Philadelphia, and were both full-time waiters until our mid-20s. And then, we fought through the same New York City media environment in the early 2000s, where we both chose professional acceptance and validation as replacements for self-esteem. Happens to the best of us.
I never considered the way I worked as unhealthy or addictive, but I had my suspicions given how unhealthy and addicted I was in all the other parts of my life. However, once sobriety kicked in, I saw whatever professional ambition remained as dangerously un-sober.
In this Slate interview, Romolini describes the difference between healthy ambition and workaholism:
"Workaholism is just always toxic. Workaholism is an addiction like anything else; it's filling a hole, it's compulsive, it's itchy. Ambition actually can be an energetic force that provides a value in your life that propels you forward. Workaholism is: You're hiding."
Like all the other isms, there's an online quiz available to see how unhealthy your work habits really are. I took one right before I finished this essay, and it said, "Strong Indication of Work Addiction." I can see how that's true. I work late, far too often. It's not that I procrastinate—it's that I linger. And I haven't gone on a vacation in seven years. What am I holding on to? Or better—what am I hiding from?
So, I will cut this short because I can write about this for thousands more words, but let's start to heal.
For our next installment of What It’s Like—do you have workaholism? Monstrous ambition problems? Tell us about your unhealthy relationship to your job and if you’ve ever sought help for it.
All contributors will remain anonymous (obv).
Hit me up here: ajd@thesmallbow.com
Subject: WORK STUFF
Anyone who submits gets a free month of TSB Sundays. – AJD1
MORE IN THIS SERIES:
This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.
You can also get a Sunday issue for $7 a month or $60 per year. The Sunday issue is a recovery bonanza full of gratitude lists, a study guide to my daily recovery routines, a poem I like, the TSB Spotify playlist, and more exclusive essays.
If you already have too many newsletters in your inbox but would still like to help our publication succeed, you can make a one-time or monthly donation by pressing this button.
Or if you like someone an awful lot, you can give them a subscription.
Thank you so much for your support!
ZOOM MEETING SCHEDULE
Monday: 5:30 p.m. PT/ 8:30 p.m ET
Wednesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET
Thursday: 10 a.m PT/1 p.m. ET (Women and non-binary meeting.)
Friday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET
Saturday: Mental Health Focus (Peer support for bipolar/anxiety/depression) 9:30 a.m. PT/12:30 p.m. ET
Sunday: (Mental Health and Sobriety Support Group.) 1:00 p.m PT/4 p.m. ET
*****
If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an "alcoholic," that's fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, codependency, love, loneliness, depression —whatever-whatever–come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome. We’re here.
FORMAT: CROSSTALK, TOPIC MEETING
We're there for an hour, sometimes more. We'd love to have you.
Meeting ID: 874 2568 6609
PASSWORD TO ZOOM: nickfoles
A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
Calling Him Back From Layoff
by Bob Hicock
*************************
I called a man today. After he said
hello and I said hello came a pause
during which it would have been
confusing to say hello again so I said
how are you doing and guess what, he said
fine and wondered aloud how I was
and it turns out I’m OK. He
was on the couch watching cars
painted with ads for Budweiser follow cars
painted with ads for Tide around an oval
that’s a metaphor for life because
most of us run out of gas and settle
for getting drunk in the stands
and shouting at someone in a t-shirt
we want kraut on our dog. I said
he could have his job back and during
the pause that followed his whiskers
scrubbed the mouthpiece clean
and his breath passed in and out
in the tidal fashion popular
with mammals until he broke through
with the words how soon thank you
ohmyGod which crossed his lips and drove
through the wires on the backs of ions
as one long word as one hard prayer
of relief meant to be heard
by the sky. When he began to cry I tried
with the shape of my silence to say
I understood but each confession
of fear and poverty was more awkward
than what you learn in the shower.
After he hung up I went outside and sat
with one hand in the bower of the other
and thought if I turn my head to the left
it changes the song of the oriole
and if I give a job to one stomach other
forks are naked and if tonight a steak
sizzles in his kitchen do the seven
other people staring at their phones
hear?
ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
But if you really hate subscriptions, feel free to make a one-time donation of $20 or more by pressing this button. You’re the best. Thanks for your kindness and support!
A.J. Daulerio, Editor of The Small Bow