You hear people talk about callings and vocations all the time. “Oh, it’s not a job,” they tell you with a slight trace of superiority, “I would do it even if I weren’t paid.”
I’ve always been like, “Yeah, sure. Let me know how your mortgage works out for you.” That is, until today.
I think I finally was able to see it.
At the security line in O’Hare, there was a woman who was born to boss. As we filed up to the conveyor belt, she would bark out instructions – not just in a general sense, but at each person, two beats ahead of what they were probably already planning to do.
“All belts must go in the plastic bin,” she yelled at a man who already had his fingers on his belt buckle.
“Shoes must go directly on the belt!” she barked at a woman who was in the process of shifting her shoes from the bin to the belt.
“Jesus,” I muttered, turning to the guy behind me. “I’m going to guess she loves her job.”
He nodded. “Seems like she was born to do it.”
“Can you imagine dinner in her house?” I asked. “Put your napkins in your laps! Elbows off the table! You MUST eat your peas before standing!”
We giggled.
When it was my turn, I unpacked my possessions as quickly as possible, eager to not receive a public reprimand.
She eyed my stuff and – finding nothing to tell me – instead hollered over to the X-Ray technician. “Oh, we’ve got us a real smart one here. Looks like she could have my job.”
No ma’am, I could not. Because if I were truly suited for it, at that moment I would’ve turned to you and screamed, “Back to it. Eyes on the next passenger!”
All you.
pithypants 
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