So this might be the weirdest thing yet; I miss working. I didn’t expect this. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job, but it’s still a job.
Not counting the frenetic, clumsy attempts at administrative tasks that just can’t be put off any longer, I’ve worked one day a week for the last six months. That one day is excellent. I get to enjoy all of the great things about work; the feeling of accomplishment when you finish a task, the satisfaction of a job well done. Sometimes people give me beer. I think my perception of working has become skewed. Now when I think of working, my association is with this breezy, eight hours a week nonsense. I have this new glorified concept of what employment feels like. I’m like a goldfish that can’t remember — I understand the business about goldfish having no memory is untrue, but I couldn’t think of a better simile — what his life was like before. This “grass is always greener” thing is pitiful. Three days in and I’d be all “ah gosh, I sure do miss being at home with my baby”.
I didn’t realize how much feeling of self-worth I gained from working. I’m sure anyone reading this is saying “DUH!”, but it’s all a revelation to me. It’s more than that, though. I get all kinds of praise at work; customers are nice to me. I miss that. I’m able to stretch my legs. I can walk out of a room without a squirming larva-person being endangered by my negligence. My obligations at work are nothing compared to my duties with “The Squish”.
In conclusion, my life is so good that I’m complaining about not working. Sorry to bitch about nothing.
Captain of Industry, a.k.a. Clinton