I am a retired elementary teacher. I substituted in my neighborhood school, up until COVID, and then, since I don’t catch curve balls, I decided I was done with that part of my life, even though I loved it, and felt I was effective and competent.
In January, after becoming totally stir-crazy, I decided to “get a job.” Hoo-boy.
My Australian friend would say, “WHHHYYY?”
To get out of the house, would be my answer, and this job was described as part-part-part time. Perfect.
I work one morning a week. Tuesdays. Nothing happens on Tuesdays, so…again…perfect.
This is what I do: deliver produce. Of course, I couldn’t be called a “delivery person.” Too mundane. My official title is Neighborhood Ambassador, but you can call me Madam Ambassador.
Anyway, as it happens, I really like this gig! On Mondays, I get the orders. On Tuesday morning, I get my delivery schedule (the route order), and then I go to the Truck Stop. The driver shoves my boxes to the end of the truck, and along with the rest of the “Ambassadors,” I move the boxes to the back of my car, check for correctness and quality, load refrigerated and freezer items, and then load my car from last-to-be-delivered to first. I push my delivery app, and I’m on my way.
I usually finish between 9:30 and 10 AM. I unload my car, organize and stack the boxes inside my Wendy House out back, and…viola’!, I have earned more than a day of substitute teaching! That’s just wrong, but it’s the way of our society.
With this little side hustle, I am helping local farmers, bringing families good food, getting myself out of the house, and earning some pocket change. As I said, just call me Madam Ambassador.