It was bound to happen sooner or later.
A couple weeks ago, I got a job at a bakery. It’s even a paid job this time, unlike the summer co-op program I had participated in the summer between sophomore and junior year. Sure, it’s a minimum wage job, but the work environment is amazing.
Not only do I get hands on experience in the kitchen, forming croissants and making other baked goods, but I also get to talk to customers on the retail front. The owners are so incredibly kind and instructive and patient. They are passionate about baking and using natural ingredients to create quality products, so it’s no surprise that the pasties and breads are beyond delicious. (Double chocolate croissants? Yes, please!)
I like half an hour walk away from the bakery, but so far, I’ve never had to walk. My mom drops me off and picks me up, and when no one is using the car, she lets me take it to work. I almost feel as though I’m playing adult, “driving” to go to “work”.
My parents are worried about the hours. They worry that I don’t have enough time to study, that my marks will drop during my oh-so-important senior year, that this job could affect the prospects of university (as if).
But what they don’t realize is that having a job inspires responsibility and good work ethic and that between the monotony of learning at school and studying at home, I rarely go out, so seeing friendly faces at the bakery is something I actually look forward to.
Not to mention that I need money to finance my university education. So far, I’ve been good about saving it, unlike many of my other job-holding friends who blow their money on food and entertainment. Again, I don’t go out much these days.
My least favourite (or perhaps most favourite) part is closing up shop because this is the time when unsold goods are thrown out. Of course, I can’t bear to see all those delicious pastries and muffins go to waste, so I take home as much as I can.
a really good thing that I don’t work there full-time, otherwise I’d be a
billion pounds overweight.
The second time I bring home a bag of day-old pastries (probably worth more than my paycheque of three hours of labour), my mom tells me not to bring any more. “Please,” she begs, in between bites of a raspberry Danish, “no more. We’re all going to gain weight.”
“Scrumdidilyumptious” is what my younger brother Kyle says, grabbing a double chocolate croissant, a cheese croissant, and a caramel apple Danish. Obviously, I didn’t eat dinner that night (because a spanikopita and a croissant hardly count as “dinner”).