The Good Job


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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