Jerry's Marginalia — I Don't Dream of Labor
There's an old saying that gets dragged out whenever somebody admits they don't particularly love their job:
“Choose a job you love, and you'll never work a day in your life.”
Bullshit.
If I had enough money, I wouldn't work a day in my life in the first place.
Maybe that's not inspirational enough to put over a picture of a sunrise, but at least it's honest.
I've spent almost six months working twelve-hour shifts, and I've learned something strange about myself: I don't actually hate twelve-hour shifts. Give me decent hours, decent money, predictable work, and enough days off to recover, and I'll show up.
People would occasionally ask me, “Do you like this job?”
My answer was simple:
“No. I like the hours.”
Apparently we're supposed to feel guilty about admitting that.
A job is supposed to be your passion. Your calling. Something that makes you leap out of bed every morning thrilled that somebody else has purchased another twelve hours of your finite existence.
I don't need that.
I need a paycheck.
I need somewhere that tells me what I'm supposed to do, gives me the tools to do it, pays me what we agreed upon, and eventually allows me to go the hell home.
That's the transaction.
Maybe I'd be happier assembling machines. Put the part here. Tighten this. Inspect that. Follow the procedure. Do it correctly. Repeat.
Boring?
Wonderful.
I've developed a tremendous appreciation for boring.
Because I've also learned that I'm probably not built for twelve straight hours of other people's problems. I can care about somebody. I can give somebody advice. I can warn somebody when they're about to do something stupid.
But caring about another human being doesn't mean I want to become responsible for every problem they decide to place at my feet.
Sometimes I don't want another side quest.
Sometimes I just want to do my damn job.
Maybe that's what these past six months were supposed to teach me. Not that I'm lazy. Not that I can't work. Not even that I necessarily hate people.
Maybe I simply picked a profession where the part of the job that exhausts me most is also the entire point of the job.
That's useful information.
So I'm retiring the fantasy that somewhere out there is a magical occupation that won't feel like work because I'll love every second of it.
I'm looking for something much less romantic.
Give me tolerable bullshit.
Give me decent money.
Give me long shifts if you want. Apparently I can handle those.
Give me clear expectations.
Give me my paycheck.
And when my shift is over, give me my life back.
I already know what I love.
That's what the paycheck is for.
— Jerry