Praise Hands? Warehouse Hands?

So, as you may have heard, my husband's out of work. Which I find particularly funny. In fact, I think it's a riot. Especially at this time of year. If I were to look at it any other way, I'd most definitely decompensate. Growing up with two older (much, MUCH older) sisters, I had to assume my share of "boy jobs" around the ranch. Moving air-conditioners, lifting things with Dad, loading a cargo truck, mowing the grass. These were all pretty normal for me as a kid. My stage name for these jobs was "Sammy" (since my sisters and I all had S names). When I heard my dad call, "C'mon, Sammy. I need your help", I knew I should reach for my designer support belt and work gloves and get to steppin'. Which opens the windows of my memory a little... My parents had a retail business in our hometown where we also sold wholesale out of our warehouse. My Saintly mom, piano hands and all, packed boxes filled with weighty pillar candles, steered them down a roller belt and was on a first name basis with the Duie Pyle and UPS drivers. I remember how chapped her hands became from using the brown, water based packing tape. Poor mother. She worked so hard. A friend recently told me about a job she took at a FedEx warehouse; working part-time while her family sleeps. This inspired me to look online and behold, this morning I set the alarm for 3:30a and arrived at 5a at UPS in West Goshen for a "tour/interview". It was dark and the directions for arrival were non-existent, but I was so happy to have been able to zoom South on 202 ALL BY MYSELF. That's the only way you should ever travel 202. Ever. So all that was provided via their online application process was the address. I followed the arrows and steered my Buick into a parking lot where I saw a weigh station -- HUP! NOT GOING THERE! I don't care WHAT they pay. No, really, I saw a sign that said, "Human Resources" and followed the arrow. NOW I was the only passenger vehicle surrounded by herds of tractor trailers lined up like soldiers, and men in orange safety vests were ZOOMING them around at a breakneck pace. I looked at the clock. THIS didn't look right either and now I had only five minutes to get to my interview. I waited patiently while two enormous trucks waltzed around me. Such precision. I couldn't believe how they moved those giant monsters so quickly and carefully with such speed! I thought to myself, "I'm going to get squashed like a bug, aren't I. I'm probably not supposed to be anywhere near here." I finally slipped through the trucks and as I was turning my head trying to figure out where the beans to park, I glanced left just in time to see a furious UPS trucker "waving" at me (ahem!) to get the bleep out of the way. Good thing I had K-LOVE on at a pretty high volume to block out the obscenities. I was sorry. I didn't mean to almost get myself killed. Really. I parked miles away and was scanned by the safety guy in the guard shack and checked for weapons. Cool. Once I made my way up the steps to the HR department, I was escorted by a nice lady into a quiet room. I turned and saw twenty people, mostly young men, seated around a giant conference table looking at me funny. Gulp. I was the only one wearing pink. Which brings up another point. WHAT EXACTLY does one wear to a warehouse interview? If it's dark when you get dressed, do you select an evening look? And are you expected to apply mascara at 3:30 in the morning? I did, but it wasn't easy. My lashes ached with every stroke, that's how tired my eyes were. These guys obviously didn't give their outfits much thought. I think almost all of them, urban in appearance, had on black or gray hoodies, with the hoodie in the UPRIGHT position. Wow. I totally could have skipped the lip gloss and shaved minutes off of my prep time. Back to the event. A very slender, 66yo lady with long brown hair, blunt bangs and bright coral nails talked about her love of UPS and her twenty-five years with them. She explained the hours and pay and the torture we were to expect. And work boots. There would be work boots. (Uh oh. This wasn't explained on the website.) You see I wasn't afraid to work hard, but my goal was to be able to maintain at the very least a modest, sporty gel manicure. By the looks of this place, that wasn't gonna happen. And the hours on the website looked doable; 4a - 8:15a. The only problem with that is that would put me back on 202 during morning rush hour. GAH! After further explanation, Suzanne confessed that the advertised 3-4 hour shift would mandatorily grow quickly over time in the days leading up to Christmas... (She said CHRISTMAS! PRAISE HANDS!)...and that REALLY I would be required to report at 3a, then 2a, then 1a, then 12mid --- and work until 7 or 8am. That's ok. But when again am I supposed to sleep? She escorted us downstairs to take a look at the brave men in brown up close. I stepped carefully up to truck #102 and got to see LIVE how the boxes are separated by shelf and how they must be rapidly loaded in order to get the deliveries out on time. It was dark. Really dark. It was kinda' cold, but everyone was in tank tops sweating their tails off. But I noticed no gloves. These guys didn't care about callouses?? I continued to smile and be my charming self. They were probably all laughing at me. Suzanne asked how many of us were still interested in an interview -- the jobs would start Monday. "Um, I'm interested---but with questions." She was not amused by me. She didn't know anything of the advertised pay on the website nor the hours that were listed. She said they're shifting into Christmas overdrive and if I didn't want to work lots of hours, then this wasn't the time to apply. I decided I was too young to die. But it's 6:15a and I'm all dressed up and have nowhere to go. Oh well, it was worth a try. At least I got to take this picture of UPS's neighbor for all my Q friends. Back to selling stuff outta my garage for now.