I'm pretty sure that my first "job" was stocking soap at the Navy Exchange. (Military folks will get this, but for you non-military types -- Navy Exchange is like a Wal-Mart on a Naval Base... sorta) I made just barely over minimum wage and it was a summer job. I had applied with two of my best friends at the time. They got jobs selling stereos and electronics and would start every morning playing "Sweet Child O' Mine" cranked up to eleven.

I would be in the storage area, surrounded by 10 foot shelves full of boxes of soap, listening to my significantly older coworkers talk about how awesome their first morning cigarette was.

You might say I lost that round.

On the flip side, I did learn that work = pay, more often than not, which was a good lesson to learn. I learned that sacrifice can be to your benefit (I rode my 10 speed to work a couple of miles downhill to get there, but coming home was all uphill -- but I got in decent shape) And I learned that although it may be fun to look at gadgets and stereos, normal people buy soap, dish liquid, and laundry detergent every day.

That first job helped me realize that making money was not just about buying toys. Real people have real expenses. And real lives. And sometimes, a really bitchin' stereo.

People who know me as a musician (voice, tuba, trombone & acoustic guitar, thanks) are often surprised to find out that I came late to the party. While most people I know started music lessons sometime in grade school, my first year in the marching band was my Junior year in high school. Prior to that time, I didn't play or sing a note outside of a church service, the shower, or a car.
I've always wondered how my life would be different if I had come to play and sing earlier. As it was, I had to choose between the All-State Band and Choir my senior year. (I chose to play tuba, so I could say I was one of the top ten tuba players in the state. It sounded more impressive than top 30 basses. In hindsight, I was a far better vocalist.) I nearly majored in music performance in college. I auditioned at the end of my Sophomore year, was accepted, and got all my ducks in a row to begin in the Fall. Over the summer, I decided to change my major and dropped all my music classes upon arriving on campus my Junior year.
So as it stands now, music is a massive part of my peripheral life or a small part of my "main" life, I can't tell which. I will identify myself as a musician, but never considered it a part of my identity. When I talk to musicians at church, where I play most these days, the connection feels "wobbly". The best analogy I can draw is this: I may speak the language fluently, understand the customs, and dress like a native, but true-born musicians can tell I wasn't born here. Or so it seems to me.
I am satisfied with who I am. Please understand that. Music played a massive role in opening my eyes to the reality that I needed to "be me" and not just try to meet the expectations of others. I love that I am a math & science nerd that defined himself with music at the end of his high school career, changed his college major at least 7 times, got a degree in family counseling, and now does graphic design and website development. Music helped me "be OK" with my seemingly disconnected interests. It forced me to ask myself who I wanted to be.
I can't help but wonder what would have happened if the question had been asked earlier.

I am a native of the digital world in many ways. I make a living there. I play there. I have long been amazed by the power available to digital writers: search and replace, indexing, easy storage, simple sharing. Everything in me says this is where I should write. But my heart is made of paper. I often have to remind myself about the hidden powers available to analog writers, because they aren't nearly as obvious. Paper is flexible; there are no menus involved to rotate from portrait to landscape. Font changes happen on the fly. I don't even have to search for clip art. The question is, do I prefer the pen to the keyboard. I classic Bill style, I have to say "both, sorta". I find more emotional satisfaction writing with a pen. My handwriting shows my mood when I wrote. When words aren't enough, I sketch. (When my sketches are awful, I've always got words!) So when I take notes; when I write poetry; when I journal, pen and paper are the only real options for me. But when I want to communicate; when I am writing an essay like this; when I want to make a clear point, I use the keyboard. It's where I live. It's how my people get their messages across. But the messages that matter most to my heart are committed to paper.

My shoes ... Keen sandals, three years old or more. Worn and slightly battered. I'm often too lazy to pull up the heel strap, so I just tuck them under and step on them (like slides).

What does this say about me?

Being grumpy today, I worry that my shoes say that I am lazy. That the casual way I step into them and run out the door says more about my work ethic and how I care for my appearance than I want to admit.

Am I lazy? Have I given up? Did I stop caring?

There's a romantic in me that wants to think that my beat up Keens say I am practical. That I chose durable shoes because it makes frugal sense. That I am above being a slave to fashion and don't care about public opinion.

But I know me. I know I care about these things.

So today, I think my shoes say this: Life is busy. Life requires a quick response sometimes. There are important things that I am letting slide. And there are still more important things that are getting done.

What do my shoes say about me? I'm alive. I'm moving. I've still got work to do.

I'm a dog person. Hands down, no doubt about it. Given the choice to choose between dog and cat, I'd choose the dog every time.
I think I'm drawn to dogs because they are an easy relationship. If I provide shelter, food, and minimal attention, I can dictate everything about my interaction with a dog. If I feel lonely, I can call my dog and he will let me pet, hold, talk to him until I am done. If my dog is bothering me, I can send him away to his bed. It's a realtionship based on my wants, my schedule, my will. Easy Peasy.
A cat just won't have any of that. A cat acts like a person: they will be loving when they feel loving. If a cat is tired, afraid, or just "needs some alone time", he will hide away under a bed or other nook for hours. And he won't come out just because you are looking for him. No easy, no peasy.
Of course this tells you a whole lot more about me than it teaches you anything about cats and dogs. Relationships are hard work. Friendships can not be scheduled. Love is not concerned with convenience. No matter how hard I wish it were otherwise.

Regular writing is still far more of a challenge than I had anticipated. I have teh desire to write; I have the time; I lack the discipline and focus. So I have called upon a powerful helper in this endeavor. It is called Plinky. Basically, Plinky is a website that posts a daily writing prompt. Amazing, isn't it?