Confessions of a Hollywood Usher, Pt. I

I’m not entirely sure what would want to make a (technically) grown woman give up a potentially lucrative, i.e. bill-paying, career in journalism to move clear across the country to work for minimum wage in a movie theater.

I really don’t.

I know I had reasons at the time. They were vague, idealistic reasons that had something to do with writing and creating worlds people would enjoy and making a difference. There also might have been a more specific reason that involved never having to walk to work through an unforeseen blizzard wearing only ballet flats ever, ever again.

But these reasons are more faded now. Why? Why did I give up a good job with benefits in a city I loved, a desk, and a near certainty of advancement? A job I worked for, through sweat, blood and unpaid internships, for the better part of five years? I had such clear reasons for leaving it all behind then, if only I could remember them.

What I do remember is taking a tour of Central Michigan University as a naïve, 17-year-old freshman and feeling superior to my fellow tour-mates because I was the only one in the group to have already chosen my major, the only one who knew what I wanted to do with my life. Publishing. I wanted to work in publishing, and I thought having that knowledge already put me light-years ahead of the directionless Chucks-wearing froshes next to me. I had direction, I had purpose, I was so sure.

I was a fucking moron.

Because now here I am, hitting my mid-20’s stride and following roughly the same employment path that I was on at 16 (although my then-job as an ice cream scooper afforded a slightly nicer uniform). I wear $15 black shoes from Target that have so many layers of chewed up popcorn and gum on the bottom I feel like I’ve gained an inch of height. I am almost daily lectured on the correct and incorrect ways to push a broom across a floor. The phrase I utter most throughout my work week is ‘would you like butter on that?’

And why? Why did I give up health benefits, casual Fridays, office parties and an actual, tangible future as a real human being? To move to California? To meet Jason Segal? To become the next Diablo Cody? Did I mention the getting-away-from-blizzards-part?

I forget.

Here is what I do know: My name is Lindsey Klingele. I am almost 26 years old. I have a college degree that I’ll be paying off until the year 2018, and I wear a uniform with my nametag on it.

More to come.