Lemme count my till. I'm clocking out!

So i did it-- I got a job. After months (add another six or so and then I could have said years), I've landed a bona-fide big-boy job; and it's a good one, too. A long, long way from being pandered to (trained?) by the lifer at the Lowe's cash register at 7 am on a Saturday, or tapping on the desks of misbehaved sleeping children at the alternative school.

Those days are over.

Well, I hope. I'm the editor of an entire newspaper. Seriously, somebody let me do that. Not a big one, mind you, but certainly an established one. Nearly 100 years old, to be exact; as a matter of fact, I'll likely be the editor when this paper celebrates its centennial-- how crazy is that? It isn't some fanzine rag that gets ran off at the kinko's or given away for free in wire metal bins, either.

I bet I'm one of the few liberal arts graduates since 2007 who can honestly say, "I get to use my degree." It's refreshing, really. I've been dealing with people who have rolled their eyes at my journalism degree for literally years now, and, starting about a year ago, I was rolling my eyes at it, too. My highest hope was to be a retail manager (hell, assistant manager), and even that didn't seem like it would work out. Not that I'm saying I'm better than any other of the thousands of unlucky graduates who got out of school when I did-- I'm absolutely not. I'm just lucky enough that someone took a chance on me.

I've got an office. A big one. It's got a swivel chair, and a studded mat for it to roll on. That chair parks beneath a wrap-around desk; the kind I've always wanted. I've got a big desk calendar where I can take notes and mark the important events I have to attend, and a phone with multiple lines. There's a computer, of course; a nice one that I absolutely couldn't afford on my own. On the wall beside my desk is a whiteboard, for ideas. The entire back wall is covered in shelving, and I've realized that I do not own enough books to fill one shelf. Of course I've not brought any action figures, yet. I've got some reference materials (some I had to order), a coffee mug I've yet to use, and a simple 5x10 framed photo of my new wife and I from three years ago.

On one shelf, propped against the wall is my diploma from the university I attended. I literally brought the frame from Wal-Mart the day before I started my new job. Before then, I had only taken it out of the cardboard tube it came in once, back when I still admired it. I think it looks pretty nice there, now. I keep the cardboard tube beside it, on the shelf.

Facing my desk are two cushy chairs, nicer than any I have ever owned. If they were in the principal's office, they'd be used for two kids to sit beside each other and sweat. When someone comes in to visit me, the ladies from the front desk come in and say, "So and so's here to see you." And I say, "tell them to come in." I literally say that.

I think it's going to be a lot of fun. But I stress about it; I stress a lot. I want to do an excellent job. I know that everyone I've met has looked at me and thought, "you look too young to be an editor." And I totally am. There's a lot of responsibility that comes with a job like this; thousands of people look at what I produce every week and I'm certain that the first person who's mad about what I print is going to make my stomach knot and turn. But when that happens, I'll try to remember the kids who ignored me when I told them to get back to work, or the cranky lady who jumped down my throat the day I took a check in my till that was missing a decimal, and that will make it better.