Something new for my resume?

I've done some crazy jobs in my life. When I was 8, I picked beans for 10 hours one Sunday. Bent over the North Queensland red dirt, in the blazing sun for 10 hours, I managed to get severe sunburn on the patch of skin exposed between my 'choose life' hyper-colour shirt and my denim short shorts, an incredibly sore back and a days pay of $7! That's right. $7. I'm still a little outraged about it today. My parents encouraged their farming friends to enslave us.

Between school and uni I looked for less back breaking, more sun-smart ways of earning a dollar and spent most summers packing mangos. Remarkably, I still love mangoes despite the sap burns, varicose veins and industrial deafness I now have from long days spent standing over the top of sorting machines pushing the good manges forward and the bad ones into a bin behind me. Which, by the way, is the reason you will NEVER see my imbibe a mango juice...

For $10 an hour, I then offered my fingers to the gentle tapping of a Mitre 10 till. The woman who offered me the job thought I'd be good on a till because I wanted to be an engineer and therefore knew how to use a calculator??? Her logic, not mine... Working in a hardware shop was fun for a while. Strangely it's the only job I've been asked for a 1000 screws. (roofing of course .. tut tut ..). After a while I got sick of giggling when sorting the plumbing supplies into male and female categories or adaptors!!! Don't get me started on using the shop intercom system for prices on grease nipples... 

At uni I took a job with a catering company. First they put me in a food prep area where I had to distribute platters of grossly overpriced, soggy chips and prawn cutlets to the boxes at Manly Oval. We all know that rugby league fans are not too discerning but the platters were horrific and I swear I picked up more chips and prawn cutlets off the ground than what was loaded on-the platters originally. Oh and to add insult to injury, I had to wear a short black skirt and white top. Ghastly.

Thankfully, the catering company was quick to notice my lack of finesse in a short skirt and my inability to manufacture a smile of 'yum yum here comes your expensive catering' when entering the box so they put me on the hill. Best job ever! I got to walk over the grassy slopes of Manly Oval yelling "2 buck beers". Men would swarm, (ok stagger) over, hand me sweaty coins in consideration of lukewarm Tooheys that I'd been carrying around like an ice cream vendor at the movies. 

Then there is 20 or so years in mining... That's the topic of many other blogs... In summary though, very similar to my formative roles - still filled with sweaty blokes, sunburn and using a calculator. Only paid a lot better.

On Friday I found a job even more demeaning than being a child slave, mango sorter, screw counter and beer seller at the footy.

I modelled. 

Oh the horror. 

It wasn't even for charity.

It was because I can't say no. 

The night before I hardly slept and wondered if it was too late to:

1. go on a diet
2. shape my eyebrows
3. buy spanks for my hips, thighs, tummy, back, butt ... do they do the fadoobadas?
4. get a new hairdo
5. some cosmetic surgery - nothing major - just eye lift, wrinkle filler, dermabrasion and liposuction.

Sick with fear, I ate a pulled pork burger, drank a glass of wine and consoled myself in the fact that the organisers had kindly set me up with a make up artist for the event. Perhaps she'd have the make up artistry to make me look less middle aged, middle sized mining mum and more long luscious catwalk vamp...unfortunately no.

The details of the event are too raw to share but let me confess that it involved:

1. leggings
2. oversized jumpers
3. multiple changes in a storeroom with women I barely know 
4. tantrums ... mainly mine... 
5. strutting along, to the right, pivot, to the front, smile, pivot, strut left, swinging jacket over shoulder and strutting off

I did this sober. Ok I had a glass of ridiculously cheap sweet sparkling wine before hand. Just to settle my nerves. 

That night, well after the event, with nerves settled, comfy pants and shoes, I did a bit of reflection. Maybe it wasn't so bad? Maybe I did look like a groovy mumma? So I took some selfies of me doing my very best blue steel...

Nope... No chance... My agent has been told to divert the calls back to Jennifer/Giselle/Renee. I'm sticking to mining engineering, consulting in diversity, charm and witty banter.