The Good Job

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The cantankerous aches. The throbbing muscle cramps. The hard closing shift that produces swollen hands the following morning. The arthritic pops around your knuckles like someone’s pinging it with a novelty toy hammer. The right shoulder that’s zero to three years away from developing severe rotator cuff issues. The knees, don’t start on the knees. The pep-in-your-step hustle. The warm-up music that sometimes works. The occasional, entirely expected, verbal degradation. The pride from winning one out of every four hundred battles in a single eight hour stint. The three day notice of the next scheduled work week which is different than a bank week but also different than the business week that runs a separate advertisement week. The metrics, all of them. The slippery but definitely better than two years ago security rung. The drive to keep going up. The nailed-it satisfaction of professional competency. The intermittent solidarity. The genuinely decent charitable donations. The clopenings. The opportunity to have a career that keeps the lights on. The knowledge that it’s compared to much worse, elsewhere. The mandatory drink when you get home—no matter the time of day. The good job.

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