Another Day, Another Job Hunt

Finished reading student papers and applied for another job yesterday. Ugh. Writing a cover letter and tweaking the CV took over half the day—longer than chugging through the student papers.

The community college where I’m working has finally advertised a full-time position in its English department. The ad reads like it was written for me…everything they want, I can give them. Except they probably don’t have in mind hiring someone who’s already on Medicare.

It’s pretty hopeless, isn’t it? Even though my old age puts me in a federally protected class (did you know you’re part of said protected class if you’re over forty?), all that means is that a prospective employer has to come up with some other excuse for not hiring you. The person they hired most recently is no spring chicken, but she’s sure not eligible to draw Social Security!

Really, it’s reasonable that they would prefer not to hire an old lady. The hiring process for these jobs, which are real plums, is long and arduous. No one likes to go through a search, and so they quite understandably would like to get someone who’s going to stay put, not someone who’s past retirement age. I think most of the District’s full-time faculty were probably hired in their thirties and can be expected to stay in the job for a good thirty years.

The other job I’ve applied for is at a place where they do indeed hire older people. A friend who’s living in Sun City recently got hired there. Though the pay is much less—just 30 grand—it would keep the wolf from the door for awhile, and it’s a very pleasant place to work. From the employer’s point of view, though, it’s not immediately evident that I’m qualified to do it. About a third of the job entails bookkeeping and financial oversight. While I know I can do it—I’ve been keeping my business’s books for years, and I also tracked our expenses and made the purchasing and hiring decisions at GDU’s editorial office—it’s hard to make that kind of activity obvious on your resumé, especially when the resumé is heavy on teaching and editorial experience.

Well…obviously I’m not going to be on a job for 30 years. I’m not going to live anywhere near that long. But if my health holds and I don’t lose my marbles, I’d probably be good for ten or fifteen more years. At the time the Bush economy crashed, I planned to work until I was 70, by which time M’hijito would be in a decent job and we would unload the downtown house. Getting laid off at 64 blew a hole in my retirement plans, and the crash wrecked M’hijito’s hopes of finding a better job while it trashed our little real estate investment. So…the truth is I have to work, and if I could get someone to hire me I’d need to stay in the traces until at least age 75.

Beyond 75, one enters advanced old age, and it’s unlikely anyone older than that is going to be good for much.

LOL! I do like to daydream sometimes about what I would do if I got a real job.

If a miracle happened and I landed the handsomely paid teaching job (we are talking “miracle” here), the first thing I’d do is sell this house and get myself into something that requires much, much less upkeep.

Sooner or later I’m going to have to move, and really…I’d like to get out of here before I’m forced. It would be best to have some choice about which rocks one lands on.

{sigh} Job or no job, I need to find an easier, cheaper place to live before much more time passes. Filling in the pool is not a practical idea. That would cost as much as building a new pool, and the result would damage what little value remains in this property. What’s needed is a nice updated patio home on a single floor with wide doorways into the bathrooms. Without a job, moving is just going to gouge another chunk out of my retirement savings. With a job, I could swing it with no further mortal damage.

’Tother thing I’d do, if a miracle happened and someone went so far as to hire me into a decently paying job, is get a new car. The Dog Chariot has developed an interesting squeak. The mechanic, being male, being almost as elderly as I, and having spent his life in around high-decibel machinery, couldn’t hear it. But I sure can…sounds like something inside a wheel. If I had an income, I’d get a car now that would run until I can no longer drive—about 15 more years.

But again, with no job, I can’t afford that. Couldn’t even begin to afford the higher insurance premiums, nor could I pay the annual registration on a newer car. I’ll have to run the Chariot until it falls apart, and then let whatever happens next take care of itself.

The lower-paying job wouldn’t allow me to move or get a new car, but at least it would stanch the flow of blood from my retirement savings. That money really needs to be preserved until I’m truly too decrepit to work at all. Otherwise, it’s not going to last for the rest of my life. The teaching job would let me do both and contribute about $20,000 a year (more, maybe) to savings. Just a few years of that, and I’d be OK for the rest of the downhill ski run.

Welp, speaking of work, today is Wednesday from Hell. Fortunately, it’s not quite so hellish as usual, because the Thanksgiving holiday bumped choir practice back to Tuesday. But it’s still a full day of standing on my feet haranguing the few students who are likely to show up. Plus (speaking of bookkeeping) I need to spend some time updating Quickbooks. So…onward and downward.