Once again, I have had the ashes of illusion removed from my eyes. I always loved my jobs, as did most of my friends. So I assumed this was the general rule among boomers. I mentioned it at breakfast, and my wife, a psychotherapist, set me straight: lots of people hate their jobs, and stay out of economic necessity.
I quite deliberately chose a career based on satisfaction rather than income potential—journalists don’t make all that much money.
My father, like his father before him, did the hard physical labor of providing home delivery of milk. Lots of jogging. Lots of heavy lifting. Lots of exposure to the weather. At our house, the weather portion of the evening news was the most important five minutes of the broadcast. What would Dad face the next day?
Snow days? “No one allowed on the road except essential personnel?” Well, that was my dad.
When I was 12 years old, he said, “I hate my job. I hate it every day.” What a thing to tell a 12-year-old! But, it lead to my dual resolves, by which I have lived ever since:
- never work at a job you hate
- Accept nothing but clean, indoor work, preferably air-conditioned, that doesn’t get my fingernails dirty (thank God carbon paper was gone by the time I turned pro!)
Before I retired, I got up every day, full of enthusiasm for work I loved and found fulfilling and useful. Another reason I missed out on the widespread dissatisfaction was that, with one exception, I lived with women who loved their work as well.
So, hate your job? Hate is poison. Get out.
A quick concluding note; I now leap out of bed (albeit a bit more slowly) every day, looking forward to projects I love and find useful and fulfilling, even though I don’t get paid to do them.
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