Delivering Pizza and the foolishness of Pride

My wife and I are on a get out of debt track. Much beans and rice have been eaten with probably much more to come. I don't mind the beans and rice, actually. It's the humble pie that is a bit hard to swallow.

I make good money, and yet, month to month, the money is really tight. I've got two late model cars, one with over 200,000 miles on it. I want to buy a newer car (~$4,000) but I'm scraping just to come up with my property taxes by the end of the year.

Our house fire last year has left us with a few loose ends that require some money to finalize. Christmas is coming and the budget is pretty tight.

All that to say that I've been looking for some ways to make some extra cash. I applied for some teaching opportunities at a local community college, but nothing is panning out. The pizza joint around the corner from my house has been looking for delivery drivers for the last six months. I've picked up an application twice now, but a small part of my soul dies when I think about taking a pizza delivery job. I mean, I'm 38 years old. I have an MBA. I am above that kind of thing, right?

That small part of my soul... PRIDE. Actually, it's a much bigger part of my soul than I care to admit. But I'm sick of that sorry SOB. I'm turning in the application. I'm also posting this on my blog. Hey, pride. Suck it.