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Work is where you find it
"I love my job," I told my editor Tuesday as I walked in the door from an interview.
"Why," he asked me, "what's happened now?" he responded, taking my comment as sarcastic. (I can't imagine why he would misunderstand my delivery.)
I spent the next ten minutes trying to convince him that I really do love my job. It finally took a list of alternative jobs I could be doing to get him to understand my passion for this one.
In my personal work history, I have been a construction and demolition worker, cook, bartender, retail clerk and nursing assistant. I also had about a three-day stint on an assembly line. All noble jobs -- if you're not me. I really love my job.
I've also done day care, managed in a variety of positions and have been a stay-at-home mom. Dare I say it again?
I was watching TV the other day and the newscaster was talking about a new Taser gun that United Airline pilots may be permitted to use in the near future. As she talked, the program was showing a young man in his mid-20s standing on a rubber mat with several older gentlemen standing around him in lab coats. As the newscaster described the gun and how it worked, the video showed an arm coming from the side of the screen, point the gun at the young man and pull the trigger. The target bent over in pain and fell to the ground. What a job.
I bet he has great aspirations for the future. If he survives the tests of the Taser gun, perhaps he can move up the ladder. Just think of the future he has in front of him. Perhaps his next step will be testing a .22 caliber pistol against a plastic-coated vest.
Who knows? He could be the head of the department by the time he's 35, moving all the way up to armor piercing bullet tester.
Since the holidays I, like many people, have decided that maybe its time to look at some kind of exercise program. Understand, this is not a resolution, I refuse to make resolutions. That would mean I was being obligated to do something and I might rebel. The problem being, I'd be rebelling against myself which would be good cause for a visit with a psychologist.
In my dreams I imagined myself buzzing through the hills and dales in and around McCook on my 12-speed mountain bike, wind blowing through my hair, the dogs running faithfully by my side.
So I borrowed my dad's bike.
First off I didn't buzz, I trudged and the wind blowing through my hair was actually my heaving breath as I tried to make it to the top of the five-degree slope along South Street. And instead of the dogs running at my side, I tied a rope to them and had them pull me. Chewey the cockapoo and Gizmo the Pekingese are really starting to look buff.
This was not my greatest achievement in the trip to better health.
I also thought about taking up running, then I remembered the bike fiasco and threw away my running shoes.
I've decided maybe swimming is the best program for me. With water splashing around me as the other swimmers put down lap after lap, I can at least attempt to hide my heavy breathing. If I do it early in the morning, I can make it a short session, using work as an excuse to stop. I actually knocked down 12 of my own laps this morning. That should carry me for the next six months.
If that fails, maybe I should look at a complete change in lifestyle. I can start looking for a new job. Maybe the Taser gun manufactures are developing a fat zapper. I'll send my application tomorrow.