I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
October 23, 2005
I’ve never been fired.
But I have feared being fired all my life.
It began when I was seventeen and got my first job at a dry cleaners. I was one of three teenagers who worked the afternoon shift, after all the actual dry cleaners had gone home. We took in dirty clothes and put the clean ones in the trunks and backseats of cars. We chewed gum and sat on the back counters and gossiped about boys and parties. And one of us stole money out of the cash register.
It wasn’t me. But the manager of the store couldn’t be sure who was responsible. She just knew that money went missing on several different occasions during my shift. And so I was given the same grand inquisition that I’m sure the other girls received.
“They’s some money missin’ from the cash register and I know it was one of you girls. What do you know about that money?” The manager, an angry, skinny redneck woman with a bad perm, cornered me as I arrived at work one afternoon.
“I… I…. I don’t know anything!” I stammered, my face reddening. Why was I blushing? I didn’t do anything wrong!
“Well, I don’t have any evidence as of right now, but you better believe I’m gonna find out who done it! I got my eye on you, girl!”
“I, um, okay,” I said, inwardly reeling. I had never been accused of, well, anything before. The idea of me stealing money was simply ludicrous. I got a sizeable allowance from my parents and was only working because my mother thought I needed to have a job the summer before I went to college.
Throughout the remainder of the summer, I often felt guilty as I worked at the register in the afternoons. A security camera was installed and I would look up at it with what I hoped wasn’t an I-done-it expression. Even though I knew I wasn’t responsible, I felt like, somehow, I was.
I wan’t fired. But I might as well have been for all the confidence I had in myself as an employee when I left that job.
Since that time, I’ve always had a nagging fear in the back of my mind that I could, at any moment, get the axe. I went from being a cashier to being a television news anchor and still worried that taking too many sick days or reporting something erroneous or not increasing the station ratings all could result in my ass getting canned.
It probably made me a better employee. I never said no to anything. But it was a hell of a way to keep a job.
Today, I work at home, raising my three girls, taking care of my husband and doing as much freelance work on the side as I can (or at times, can’t) manage. I’m no longer in a position to be fired.
But sometimes, when I yell at one of the girls or get bitchy with my husband or forget snacks for the soccer game or don’t spend enough time playing with the baby, I feel like I should be fired. And in those moments, I wonder if the only reason I’m not let go is because there’s no one who could– or would– take my place.
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