The Side Hustle
Labor Day and a quote from Barbara Ehrenreich
One of the first serious disagreements my husband and I had when we were dating, if you can believe it—and come to think of it, you probably can, given the reason we’re both here—was about class. A history major with an economics focus, he told me that most people die in the class they were born into. I hated this.
I believed so much in meritocracy. It had been drilled into me since I was very young that I was brilliant, and if I went to college and worked very hard I would succeed. Success was never explicitly defined, but coming of age in the dot-com era seemed to suggest that it included a fulfilling, well-compensated job that would allow me to buy a little house in my hometown and whatever else I wanted. (Wanted, not needed.)
I was at the end of my 20’s when I started dating my husband and I’d never really been alone in the world. I’d gone from college directly into a bad marriage, then moved back home when it was clear I needed to rip up my roots to be able to get the nerve to finalize my divorce. Yes, I was in an entry-level job at 28, yes, I was living in a run-down apartment that cost too much for what it was, but this was just the beginning. I was going to be making, I don’t know, $100,000? in five years. You know, dot-com money. At my very fulfilling job.
In addition to my entry-level job, I kept my content-writing job that paid me $25.00 per 300-word post. I could make $25.00 an hour if I could focus. Easy money! Except there were clients to keep happy, SEO to worry about, deadlines, invoices to create and the hassle of chasing down a check. It was $300.00 a month and it was never easy. When I got promoted at my 9 to 5 I quit the side gig, then immediately regretted it. I could be making $300 more a month if I could have just stayed more on top of things I would frequently think.
When I got pregnant, I put the thought of a side hustle—or, really, a second job, since I often spent time reading posts on my local Reddit about part-time work that was flexible if you had a regular job—to bed. I started to think about earning more money in broader terms, like asking for a raise, finding a new job, going to graduate school.
Speaking of graduate school, shortly after graduating in May, I replied to a post from someone in a Facebook mom’s group asking for a cat-sitter. I like cats, I thought, and all she wanted was someone to go over twice a day and feed them. Easy money! The first time was great, just three visits and a nice tip. The second time less so. She didn’t tip, but also didn’t have any complaints or feedback about my service. She was so nice, surely it was just a mistake?
My current job pays well, and with the backing of a union I have the luxury of guaranteed pay raises. But our kids are still on Medicaid, we still get SNAP benefits. They have everything that they need, but as they get older I worry about my ability to provide them with everything they want. It’s still a splurge to pay $60.00 for a month of dance classes or cute clothes for their constantly growing bodies that don’t come from their practical grandparents.
So anyway, the mom hired me for Labor Day weekend. I did six visits, each one including almost an hour in the car. (Easy, I’ll just listen to podcasts! I thought.) I had to leave the house at 7:30 a.m. to make it by 8:00 a.m. which meant my husband was left to handle morning duties alone. I missed bedtime because I needed to leave at 7:30 p.m. to let the cats inside by 8:00 p.m. On Sunday night the mom texted me and asked me to take her trash to the curb. “I always forget we have pickup on holidays!” I pushed it a hundred yards down her private driveway in the dark. I made $110 for the weekend. She did not tip me.
There was a moment when I was waiting for the cats to eat so I could wash their bowls that I looked around at where I was. A two-story house with a three-car attached garage and a detached garage that is so big I thought was the house next door. And I don’t begrudge anyone that, to be clear. It’s not what I would want for myself, but I’m not saying it’s wrong. But I had the realization that no matter how much I cat sit, for her or anyone else, I’m never going to make enough money to buy a comparable house. I’m just as smart as she is, just as organized, work just as hard to be a good parent. But I’m not ten missed breakfasts away from having a detached garage to fill up with pleasure crafts. I’m not ten bedtime stories away from having a private drive the length of a football field.
Here’s something that shaped my view of money and class this week:
