Work Weary
My apologies to the truly overworked and underpaid of the world, but I am experiencing the sort work weariness that only the misdirected liberal arts majors in the United States can experience. At the tender age of 41, I cannot tell you what color my parachute is, but I can tell you without reservation all of the ways in which I hope to never earn a meager living again.
With my boss and his boss out of the office this week, I was prepared for a rather easy-going time of it. HA-HA! All I can say is that my week has been such that a trip to the Ladies' Room is a luxury and a time-stealer.
But it's not just this particular week at this particular job. It is an on-going, multi-fold problem and is this the issue:
I hate to be tethered, but "freedom" doesn't offer health insurance or a 401k. I need to be challenged, but not overworked. I need to be well-paid, but not so much that I am a slave to some buzzing electronic device.
No matter how interesting the work environment, how wonderful my boss or how stimulating the work, it all falls apart eventually. There comes a point in every job where just showing up makes me feel as if I am living something a akin to the spawn of a Kafka novel mating with a Solzhenitsyn tome. I am the poster girl for the easily-bored and wildly-restless Generation X.
Sitting at the same desk, seeing the same people, doing the same work day after day after day -- without an end in sight -- is a mental gulag.
My spirit could not be less willing.
With my boss and his boss out of the office this week, I was prepared for a rather easy-going time of it. HA-HA! All I can say is that my week has been such that a trip to the Ladies' Room is a luxury and a time-stealer.
But it's not just this particular week at this particular job. It is an on-going, multi-fold problem and is this the issue:I hate to be tethered, but "freedom" doesn't offer health insurance or a 401k. I need to be challenged, but not overworked. I need to be well-paid, but not so much that I am a slave to some buzzing electronic device.
No matter how interesting the work environment, how wonderful my boss or how stimulating the work, it all falls apart eventually. There comes a point in every job where just showing up makes me feel as if I am living something a akin to the spawn of a Kafka novel mating with a Solzhenitsyn tome. I am the poster girl for the easily-bored and wildly-restless Generation X.
Sitting at the same desk, seeing the same people, doing the same work day after day after day -- without an end in sight -- is a mental gulag.
My spirit could not be less willing.
Labels: ennui
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