The Last Hurdle Before Launching the Mission Impossible

This week.

My gym.


I'm on the elliptical, chugging water and fixing my eyes on the mounted-wall television, when I hear them.


Two other women, about 10 years my senior, are having a very intense discussion on the nearby bicycles.


"Where does she work?" one asks the other.


"She's at a department store, and let me tell you, she's getting her lesson on dealing with the public," the other answers.


"Ohhhhhhhh," groans the first. "Well, when you're making your way through college, it's good to have a menial job so that you can appreciate what's ahead after you get your degree."


"Yes," the second agrees. "And it also helps her to understand how she should treat people."


"I had a job like that once, years ago," the first says. "And I remembered it the other day, shopping at Penney's. I saw this customer treat the girl at the register like she was a dog. After she left, I said to her, 'I will not treat you like that.'"


"Well, at least you don't have to work a job like that anymore!" the second woman laughs.


"I know. When you have a job interacting with the public like that, you have to swallow a lot of pride."


I swig another mouthful of water and scowl. If they only knew. If they only knew that a few feet from them, someone was listening who had just given up a job like they were describing, because she couldn't get the promised health insurance from that employer.


If they only knew that I'd had to do exactly what they'd described -- swallow my pride -- as my last hurdle before launching my Mission Impossible.


Pride.


Pride was the only thing standing between me and my mission three months earlier.


I'd done my due diligence. I gathered all the facts about the company where I would apply for my part-time job. I figured out babysitting arrangements. I alerted my editors that I'd be throwing in an extra job duty to try to get health insurance, and that I might have to cut back on some work for them. I'd painstakingly put together my schedule like a complicated jigsaw, stealthily plotting where I would do magazine interviews, where I would write ... where I would fit in enough hours for a part-time job. It wouldn't be easy, but I was determined to do it.


All of these things had been calculated like an elegant algorithm.


But I had one more hurdle to clear.


My pride.


I'd worked in college at jobs like this. In particular, the summer before my senior year, I did my duty in an infant department at the D&L Department store in Manchester, Connecticut. When my 8-hour shift was over there, I'd race home, grab a bite to eat, change my clothes ... and head to the local cineplex, where I shoveled popcorn on a slippery buttered floor. I did that for the next 5 hours, until 11 p.m. On weekends, I was there until 1 a.m.


On my one day "off," I did an internship at the local newspaper, writing obituaries and tagging after reporters to observe them at work on their assignments.


That summer, I worked 7 days a week, with one day off -- the 4th of July. I earned $3,000, a small fortune in 1986. But I never wrestled with the issue of pride. I always knew this was a temporary gig and at the end of the senior year, I'd have a degree. I'd get a professional job, and I'd never have to do any of that again.


Until now, 25 years later.


I was a single mom with a special needs child and had no end in sight to the escalating health care costs. I was barely making ends meet after the premium gouged my checking account every month for the only policy I could get. It would be worth it if I took refuge under the blanket of a corporation that could provide this for me at an affordable price.


But I had to face my pride. Other women my age weren't doing what I was planning to do. Most of my friends were married to successful men and were stay-at-home moms, their only concern, homeschooling.


No. I was in this alone, and it was up to me alone to find a solution to this problem.


I didn't like having to swallow my pride. But I decided that if it was a choice between my pride and affording quality of life ... the pride would have to go.


So two days after I had the discussion with my uncle about Cracker Barrel, I put on one of my best outfits and jewelry, dyed my roots, made up my face like a princess and jumped behind the wheel in my quest for a part-time job.


And I left my pride in the dust.


That's when things started to get really interesting.


Tune in for the next part of Mission Impossible: Health Insurance ...