In my role, I’m constantly coming into contact with people whose jobs are cooler than mine.

Police seem to have it sweet: they don’t have to worry about what they’re going to wear every day, they get to carry guns and they have something to say over a two-way other than banging on about that shit pie at the last servo. These guys even get to appear in parades.

I really like wearing riding boots to work (apparently it’s no longer acceptable to wear riding boots and sparkle sleeves whilst draped in a blanket at work: what kind of world is this?!) so I wouldn’t mind being an agronomist. They also get to lean on fence posts and Hilux trays, which isn’t something just any old person could do.

ICU nurses get to wear scrubs and carry clipboards, which is a combo of ultimate comfort and don’t-mess-with-me-I’m-a-big-deal that works on so many levels.

Teachers get holidays. Lots. Of. Holidays.

Politicians get to carry briefcases and have more than Nutella, cashews and a butter knife inside.

Doctors get to have pagers without having to be in the ninties.

And don’t even get me started on fantastic it would be to be a judge.

It just seems that everyone has it cooler than I do. Better outfits, ripper accessories and so many excuses for manila folders: the grass is so much greener on their sides. It makes me picture myself in their shoes. Last week it was a gynaecologist after watching The Mindy Project, this week it’s a tourism executive. These flimsy whims of mine have me wondering: what else could I actually do with my life?

I mean, I’m barely into my second decade, you’d think there’s something I could re-train for. Unfortunately, the wealth of knowledge I’d built up after I peaked in primary school has been replaced by thoughts I have everyday such as: “if you spell your name wrong over the phone, that email will never make it into your inbox”; “if in doubt, control, alt delete”; “this is how you get ants” and the classic “try not to swear in this interview”. All that I’m left with is the historical facts I’ve gleamed from a lifetime of watching The Simpsons, the difference between a simile and metaphor (I once got into a heated argument with a poor work experience kid about it, and would have literally rubbed his nose in it had my boss not have been around) and some Spicegirls lyrics. Getting back into uni doesn’t seem plausible, so I’d have to approach a job with the goods I’ve already got.

But it’s a tough sell when your only marketable skills are your personality and being able to make fart noises with your neck when it’s sweaty. The only thing I’d be qualified to do is to line up people’s highlighters in a neat fashion that also replicates a rainbow.

So what else could I pad out my resume with? From my past working history I have gained the knowledge of how to pick a good onion, that being overly polite to an already-engaged customer will have hilarious results that won’t get you in trouble with management, how to kick arse in a junior cattle judging comp (“I picked number three because it has good, even fat distribution, which I like to see, and a nice thick base at the tail here” ) and that chairobics is a thing. It’s not really a narrative that makes much sense, and isn’t likely to get me very far.

Thankfully, I like my job.

I get to use puns on the regular, highlight things with different colours and have the occasional conversation with a deputy premier about the NASA remix tracks he added to his road trip playlist. Instead of dedicating my life to just one task, like studying the movements of black–tailed cockatoos, I get to have a taste of everything. My job is like being at a really fancy party where the canapés are more than Jatz, kabana and Bega cubes: I get to sample a wide mix of everything. My career essentially can be equated to one of those “taster” dip packs with hummus AND tzatziki. I get to find out about methane gas emitted into the atmosphere, talk funding agreements and meet the Arlenes and the Joyces of the world who just want to make people smile with their baked goods. And while sometimes I’ll want to hog the metaphorical party pie tray, there’s plenty more on the table to keep me from hiding in the coat check room. I may not get to carry a taser, but I’ve got it pretty damn good. So I’m thinking I’ll just stick with it, no matter how tempting carrying a stethoscope around my neck can be.

Well, at least until I answer my phone with “I wake up with Today” and that creepy block of cash comes to my door (he actually has an Instagram account, you might want to add him).