A Public Service Announcement

*clears throat, taps microphone*

My fellow Americans.

While at the mall today with the parental units and Mohair Sam, I came upon one of those sights that makes you sad for humanity.

A heavyset, youngish woman, completely empty-handed, perusing the eyeglass display at your friendly neighborhood Lenscrafters. Close behind, looking oblivious, was her husband or boyfriend, clutching her Coach purse (which he likely paid for) in his left hand.

He looked at me through the glass, and we locked eyes. I glanced down at the purse in his hand, then back at him, shaking my head with a sad smirk.

Ladies: unless your hands were eaten off by a shark and you as yet do not have your bionic claws or hooks, or you are so intoxicated you're talking to shrubbery or a fire hydrant, or are otherwise so completely incapacitated you cannot do so on your own, there is NO reason, ever, that you should make your man carry your purse for you.

Gentlemen: When your wife or girlfriend hands you her bag and says, "Baby/Sweetie/Schnookums, hold my purse?" You are fully within your rights to say, "No, bitch. Carry your own shit." Then go do something manly. Like bicep curls, or bear wrestling.

Carry a woman's purse for her, and you might as well remove your testicles and put them in the bag next to her lipstick so she can keep them safe, as you obviously won't be needing them.

Recalculating Route...

It’s my first day. I report to my duty station, my nerves are frayed and on edge as I prepare to meet my FTO who will hopefully make me into a stellar, polished officer, effectively finishing the job that the academy started. When I get there, I realize I have no uniforms, no equipment, not even an issued duty weapon. An officer meets me in the crowded hallway and tells me he is my training officer, but I don’t catch his name. I’m supposed to follow him. I do my best to keep up as he walks away, it’s difficult because there are people in uniforms – my now brothers and sisters in blue – scurrying up and down the hall, rushing to get everything done before briefing. It’s difficult to navigate; I’m so short I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of navy. My FTO carelessly hands me my uniforms over his shoulder, letting me know that they are secondhand. I look down at them, and realize the name embroidered on the shirt is not mine.

And then I wake up.

I had this dream several weeks ago. For the last few days I’d been waiting with fear, trepidation and excitement for word from the latest agency I had applied to, even going so far as to dig my old boots out and keep them in the garage until I needed to dust them off and shine them up. I hadn’t made it to the background process with any other agency yet, so I was excited and nervous, but confident that this was finally it. The last 3 years, the sleepless nights, tears, disappointments, test after test after test, were finally over. Now all I had to do was wait (impatiently) for the letter I was told to wait for.

I was rejected.

I admit I made the mistake of putting all my eggs into this one basket. But to be perfectly honest, I’d lost track of how many departments in southern California I’ve applied to. Hell, the list of the ones I haven’t applied to is much shorter. I was loath to start the process all over again, especially the much dreaded physical agility test. I do not exaggerate when I say I’d rather take a Taser, OC and gas at the same time rather than do a PAT. That test is the bane of my existence.

But now, sitting on the floor in my ratty, smelly gym clothes (why don’t these intense moments come when I’m freshly showered and clean and my hair looks nice? I always look like a hobo. It never fails. Maybe it says something about my hygiene and poor fashion choices), I’m thinking that probably wasn’t the wisest course of action. My unemployment benefits have long since run out, and my bank account is slowly dwindling at the cost of my bills. It’s time to consider other ideas.

You know that phrase, “the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”? That’s a lie. The truth is, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a broken fan belt and a flat tire. And on the way there you keep running out of gas, and you either drive too far over the speed limit, or you’re going too damn slow and everyone else is passing you while giving you the finger. After making the drive for 3 years (even pausing once in a while for the scenic route), I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s finally time to stop, look at the map, and find a new route.

(Just as long as I don’t use Apple maps. HAHAHA!! Get it? GET IT? Cause apparently that app sucks. Lolz.)

I’ve resisted the idea of alternatives for a long time. I felt like if I looked for other types of careers then that meant I was quitting.  The naysayers had won, and that the time I spent in the academy was wasted. The academy was no cakewalk, especially for a small, soft, out of shape oompa loompa like me. It had its fun times and the people I met there are awesome sauce. But yeah. That shit was like, way hard, yo. AND THERE WAS NO CAKE.

Plus, I feel like I used to be part of this super elite, exclusive club of law enforcement personnel, and for the last three years I’ve been desperately trying to get back in.  Recently I had to watch (via Facebook) as my former classmates geared up to go to their patrol stations, a milestone I once looked forward to. Can I really turn my back on a profession that I had worked towards for more than 6 years? The idea, once, was ludicrous. 

Not Ludacris. This ain’t the durrrty souf.

The truth is, this entire time, I’ve been afraid to set aside the idea of law enforcement because it had become my very identity. If I set it aside, who am I truly? The fact that I don’t know the answer to that is terrifying.  When I had a badge I wore it with pride, whether outwardly on my uniform or secretly tucked in my purse. When I left, well, it was obviously only a matter of time until I was rehired. Until then, I was a graduate student. Then I was a-grad-student-in-the-background-process, implying that I’d have a new job any day now and I wasn’t some loser living with her parents.

Looks like it’s time for me to find another way. This decision is by no means easy, I feel like I’m letting a little piece of me go. And regardless of what anyone says, it feels like quitting because I may not ever come back to law enforcement. That thought is, right now, absolutely heart-wrenching. I can’t help but wonder if my old classmates will still accept me, even though I’m no longer one of their own?

I’m venturing away from what was once habitual and comfortable (except the belt, when loaded. That shit was heavy), and wading into unfamiliar waters. I am a poor swimmer to begin with, literally and figuratively. Chances are I’m going to sink a few times, get water up my nose and wind up with swimmer’s ear. There are now other options to consider, options I never would have looked twice at in the past. Eight months from now, I will even be qualified to teach at the college level. Who knows. I may even go federal.

(Note: any reference to “the fuzz” made by me probably means I haven’t waxed my legs in a while. It has nothing to do with work. Just thought I’d let you know. You’re WELCOME.)

At the moment, I’m low on gas and need to stop and load up on Corn Nuts and a Slurpee (read: I’ve cried all day and my eyeballs are dry and puffier than a marshmallow Peep). Once that’s done though, time to keep going. The journey continues.

Although I should probably skip the 405.