I love many things.
The chocolaty goodness that is Miss Moneypenny? Yep! Mi familia? Yes. My boys? You betcha.
I wish I could list my job in the list of things that I truly love. I just can’t do it. I tried, but my job just wouldn’t love me back. Like any other relationship a person can become involved in a job that you don’t love and in turn doesn’t love you back can utterly ruin your life. The hate and malaise that stems from work place dysfunction will seep into every aspect of your being. Inside and outside of the workplace. (A sh*tty job is kind of like late stage syphilis, you knew you should have done something about it a long time ago, but now you’re just mentally ill and a general pain in the a** to be around.)
Out of my friends, I probably can count five of them who love their jobs. Some of them might flirt with their jobs from time to time, but they don’t love it. Others bump uglies with their jobs just because it’s there and it’s there and close at hand, but there’s no way in hell they love the job.
Me on the other hand, I hate my job. I ‘m not flirting with it. I’m not saying cutesy things to it to make it feel better. In the mornings we stare at each other in complete silence and drink our coffee. I’m most certainly not getting intimate with my job just because it’s there. I don’t even want to look at my job. We don’t even speak to each other any more. My job is Don Draper and I feel like his wife. It tells me and let’s me know that “I ain’t sh*t.” on a regular basis. It pays the bills in the house. It thinks it can say whatever it wants to me in our relationship. The thought of my job gives me the Josey Wales face in the early morning hours.
This causes me to feel that I’m losing out on something that I would much rather be doing. I see the job, Dream Job, the one that I’m actually in love with all the time. Dream Job is mad sexy. Hell, I’m flirting with Dream Job with every key stroke, but unlike the job I’m shackled to, the love of my life has no stability at the moment. It’s living on its mom’s couch. Not the basement, the couch.
Dream Job sits around all day on it’s a**. Occasionally Dream Job puts on something nice and comes to my office just to walk by me in the hallway and get my hopes up. We trade pleasantries. Then Dream Job just smiles and begins to away slowly, knowing that I’m watching it go out the door, baiting me to follow. (Everyone knows Dream Job looks good from the front, but watching Dream Job walk away is a sight to behold.) I hate when Dream Job does that. Dream Job is such a tease.
I head back to my
cage desk knowing that Dream Job will call me later on that day on its mom’s phone Dream Job will then proceed to tell me how wrong it is for my current job to treat me the way it does.
You know the spiel:
“I’d never do that to you.”
“Just leave baby, it can’t do it better than I can.”
“Let me make you happy.”
In my heart I know all of this is true, but there is one thing holding me back from putting one flat-foot in front of the other and walking out that door Large Professor style: Dream job doesn’t have sh*t except that spot on its mom’s couch. My Ball-busting, cringe inducing job has a 401k and insurance benefits. Dream job can’t provide me with a $35 co-pay for my shrink’s office now can it?
Nope, it sure can’t.
So I tell dream job to work on its self. Step its game up and do what it needs to do for me to embrace it and love it like I should. ‘Cause when that moment happens and dream jobs gets it sh*t straight I’m gone without any hesitation. When it shows me that it can help provide for us and pay our bills it’s on. At that moment I will chunk a deuce towards my current and move along.
So I’m going to heed Wilson Pickett’s words and not get fooled by the green grass.
Well, not for the moment anyway.