Penelope Trunk’s recent article about aiming high in your job search reminded me of my own career trajectory. We often undervalue our skills and aim equal to or lower than our abilities, which used to be my tactic, or lack of one. While I doubt this story would make it in How’d You Score That Gig?, it’s one of my favorites.

When I was 15, one of the first jobs I got was cleaning the home of a Grande Dame in the affluent Bloomfield Hills, Michigan suburbs. Her husband had done business in Japan and their home was a fascinating collection of Italian and Japanese paraphernalia and hand-sewn walls. That’s right, padded, lush Italian fabric panels perfectly lining their walls.

She had me iron and precisely fold her fine linens which she stored in a separate refrigerator while still damp from the dryer to produce the perfect stiffness. I’d wax and polish her floors on my hands and knees, sparkle her silver, and begin wrapping her Christmas presents in October. They would be stacked in procession down the halls and stuffing guest rooms by December, each identified by a name and numbering system applied to the bottom corner of each gift. Then I would deliver many of them door-to-door. I felt like a character in a Dickens novel. She paid me $6.50 an hour, along with apple juice, and cookies.

It was a good gig. I could set my own hours, work overtime if I needed, and I enjoyed the beautiful environment. This type of solitary, honest work suited me and I stuck with it throughout college.

One of my employers was a British professor researching biological warfare who suffered severe allergies and couldn’t clean her own home, which was spotless to begin with. I’d indulge her neuroses with weekly scourings of her floors, multiple dustings under the bed, washing her hypo-allergenic bed sheets in scalding water, and flipping her organic latex and cotton stuffed mattresses. I’d cook her organic vegetarian meals while I listened to Car Talk on NPR, and discovered the bliss that is a Newman’s Organic Fig Cookie. I always wondered what all the files marked CONFIDENTIAL held, but never peeked.

Then there was the child psychologist, a single woman from the south who lived with her curtains perpetually drawn and her two large and very dirty dogs. I’d walk and entertain her pets, and clean up the piles of hair, dirt, and food that accumulated in astonishing amounts over the previous week. Her home always smelled of animal fat and Comet scrub. Her walls were lined with fascinating books, but the one I’d peruse weekly was, How to Marry the Man of Your Choice with scintillating hints like wearing soft, button down tops because they appear easy to take off!

I worked for a few families here and there, but once I neared graduation I had difficulty getting hired in my trade of choice. Wives knew an educated girl like me wasn’t likely to stick around long.

The last woman I ended up interviewing with happened to be a former attorney from New York who was getting her Master’s in English Composition and was writing a second edition of a book her father had originally published. She took one look at my resume and said, “Why are you applying to be my cleaning lady? Would you like to be my assistant editor instead?”

I jumped at the chance, and it was just the two of us producing entertainment guides to theatres in New York and Chicago. I was able to write a few blurbs, took a few trips to Chicago, and even scored a photo of myself performing on stage to flesh out some of the pages. I worked with her part-time for over a year and learned about research, writing, marketing, and formatting a small-production book. It was a fascinating experience.

It just goes to show, you might think you are only qualified to clean someone’s floors, but perhaps you should give yourself a little credit.