why do i work?
Everyone already knows the answer, right? We all work so we can afford cool stuff, or at least a roof, beer and sandwiches. And a trip to the emergency room now and again.
That's certainly how it started for me. I wanted to keep my hip urban loft with the thrillingly functional appliances. I was very self-satisfied, making what I thought was a pile of money at my first real job. And the company sent me places -- New York, mostly -- and life was very exciting and free.
If life were like a movie, there would have followed some shocking revelation about the hideous nature of what I actually was expected to do, or how slaves in China were killed because of my company, or something. In movies, the men are mostly svelte and athletic, but this is one way in which reality might be better: my company makes money, looks after its own people and generally avoids unscrupulous activities. All it takes are a few founders who care. I'm very lucky.
So what did make me change my mind about Corporatia??
I guess I realized that I will now spend years full of sunny days sitting in an office chair under really wretched light, staring at a computer. How many years? Depends how soon I get senile. Or cancer. I will spend at most five weeks per year at the ocean, or my folks' house, or visiting friends, or climbing. I pictured myself with white hair, sitting at my current desk. I wondered what hot flashes do to your ability to work. This is me, posting pictures of my grandkids on the office walls. It made me shudder, and not because I'm afraid to get old.
Oh, f*ck. Yes I am. But getting old doing what I want isn't nearly so unpleasant a thought as getting old in that office, while the parliament of coworkers gets magically younger every year.
So why do I STILL go in every weekday morning? I have a good friend about 8 hours away who owns a giant house that operates like a hotel -- lots of people, dogs, cats, birds, noise and affection. I love it there. Best of all, I would be welcome at any moment, carrying a just suitcase or followed by a moving truck. (There aren't very many friends about whom I can say that. I bet there aren't many people like that, period.)
I don't know why I keep going. I have a mortgage for now, but I'm planning on unloading that as soon as we get this house in selling shape. The idea of not having health insurance is a little scary, but I might be able to afford Cobra. Shirking all responsibility at my age is pretty weird. But if I don't, I'm just going to keep wondering what else I could be doing. And daydreaming about Kevin Spacey's character in American Beauty, as he leans out the drive-through window.
Here's one deep sigh for the days when I could just work at McDonald's.
That's certainly how it started for me. I wanted to keep my hip urban loft with the thrillingly functional appliances. I was very self-satisfied, making what I thought was a pile of money at my first real job. And the company sent me places -- New York, mostly -- and life was very exciting and free.
If life were like a movie, there would have followed some shocking revelation about the hideous nature of what I actually was expected to do, or how slaves in China were killed because of my company, or something. In movies, the men are mostly svelte and athletic, but this is one way in which reality might be better: my company makes money, looks after its own people and generally avoids unscrupulous activities. All it takes are a few founders who care. I'm very lucky.
So what did make me change my mind about Corporatia??
I guess I realized that I will now spend years full of sunny days sitting in an office chair under really wretched light, staring at a computer. How many years? Depends how soon I get senile. Or cancer. I will spend at most five weeks per year at the ocean, or my folks' house, or visiting friends, or climbing. I pictured myself with white hair, sitting at my current desk. I wondered what hot flashes do to your ability to work. This is me, posting pictures of my grandkids on the office walls. It made me shudder, and not because I'm afraid to get old.
Oh, f*ck. Yes I am. But getting old doing what I want isn't nearly so unpleasant a thought as getting old in that office, while the parliament of coworkers gets magically younger every year.
So why do I STILL go in every weekday morning? I have a good friend about 8 hours away who owns a giant house that operates like a hotel -- lots of people, dogs, cats, birds, noise and affection. I love it there. Best of all, I would be welcome at any moment, carrying a just suitcase or followed by a moving truck. (There aren't very many friends about whom I can say that. I bet there aren't many people like that, period.)
I don't know why I keep going. I have a mortgage for now, but I'm planning on unloading that as soon as we get this house in selling shape. The idea of not having health insurance is a little scary, but I might be able to afford Cobra. Shirking all responsibility at my age is pretty weird. But if I don't, I'm just going to keep wondering what else I could be doing. And daydreaming about Kevin Spacey's character in American Beauty, as he leans out the drive-through window.
Here's one deep sigh for the days when I could just work at McDonald's.