Generation X...whiney bitches.
Our generation is full of a bunch of lazy asses. I'll even admit to it. There are weeks I don't even hit the 40hr mark, then other weeks I hit the 70hr mark, it's a fair trade, no more no less, I think. (Although, I think I work harder than a lot of people I come across, save for some of my midwestern friends)
I was thinking of this because yesterday I was complaining about my feet hurting. I admitted it was because I hadn't worked in 5 days and so they'd probably grown accustomed to resting on a couch cushion and only being overused during the occasional jog. The talk of hurting feet lead to a conversation about previous jobs. My co-worker talked about what a wake-up call her first food service job was and I told her the story of Rudy J's. I told her about how my first week was in the dish pit. It was a 7a.m. to 7p.m. shift in a sopping wet side-room with no circulating air, and a sicko with a mullet. I didn't get a break and by the end my hands were shredded from those monster size Brillo pads used for pots and pans. I also remember taking out garbage bags that while trying to heave them over the side of the dumpster, tweaked muscles in my back. I clearly remember getting home, taking off my clothes and being pruned from neck to knees because I was soaking wet all day. I also remember psyching myself up the next day before dipping my slashed up hands back into the hot-soapy water. I did all of that so I could graduate to the next step at Rudy J's, which was hardly better. The 2nd test consisted of a 10 hour day, standing in one spot peeling, hashing, and cutting 20 gallon Rubbermaid totes of potatoes and onions. No break was offered with this job either. At first, the boys would carry the totes for me and Cassandra, who worked by my side (the only good thing about that kitchen) but, after a few weeks they grew tired of it and I had to carry, pull, drag those son-of-a-bitchin plastic boxes myself. All this before I could be a waitress and for only 6.25 an hour (it may have gone up to 8.00 after a month.) Nonetheless, I heard myself telling the story, making myself sound like a martyr because I did such a "grueling" job for 9-10months, then I stopped and thought about what a little pussy-ass bitch I was being, whining. I thought about men and factory work, roofers, construction workers and women building planes in WWII, who did that shit for years. In telling the story I realized that I was less of a trooper and more of a wuss.
I'm happy we've moved to a society having more effortless careers, but the character built by hard work is dwindling to say the least, perhaps is has even completely dwindled. I hear so many people/Americans complain about a long, tough day of work (me included), it scares me. Now I know what my Grandpa was trying to say all those years, we've grown into lazy, fat cats.
I was thinking of this because yesterday I was complaining about my feet hurting. I admitted it was because I hadn't worked in 5 days and so they'd probably grown accustomed to resting on a couch cushion and only being overused during the occasional jog. The talk of hurting feet lead to a conversation about previous jobs. My co-worker talked about what a wake-up call her first food service job was and I told her the story of Rudy J's. I told her about how my first week was in the dish pit. It was a 7a.m. to 7p.m. shift in a sopping wet side-room with no circulating air, and a sicko with a mullet. I didn't get a break and by the end my hands were shredded from those monster size Brillo pads used for pots and pans. I also remember taking out garbage bags that while trying to heave them over the side of the dumpster, tweaked muscles in my back. I clearly remember getting home, taking off my clothes and being pruned from neck to knees because I was soaking wet all day. I also remember psyching myself up the next day before dipping my slashed up hands back into the hot-soapy water. I did all of that so I could graduate to the next step at Rudy J's, which was hardly better. The 2nd test consisted of a 10 hour day, standing in one spot peeling, hashing, and cutting 20 gallon Rubbermaid totes of potatoes and onions. No break was offered with this job either. At first, the boys would carry the totes for me and Cassandra, who worked by my side (the only good thing about that kitchen) but, after a few weeks they grew tired of it and I had to carry, pull, drag those son-of-a-bitchin plastic boxes myself. All this before I could be a waitress and for only 6.25 an hour (it may have gone up to 8.00 after a month.) Nonetheless, I heard myself telling the story, making myself sound like a martyr because I did such a "grueling" job for 9-10months, then I stopped and thought about what a little pussy-ass bitch I was being, whining. I thought about men and factory work, roofers, construction workers and women building planes in WWII, who did that shit for years. In telling the story I realized that I was less of a trooper and more of a wuss.
I'm happy we've moved to a society having more effortless careers, but the character built by hard work is dwindling to say the least, perhaps is has even completely dwindled. I hear so many people/Americans complain about a long, tough day of work (me included), it scares me. Now I know what my Grandpa was trying to say all those years, we've grown into lazy, fat cats.