We really shouldn’t be afraid of hard work, but alas, I am. At least for what the Postal Service is currently paying me. Unless they come up with some kind of decadent incentive package that includes a steady two days off per week, 12-hour shifts at my discretion, a Swedish masseuse, and a key to the executive outhouse, my days as a box bouncer are surely numbered.
At my interview, I was asked if I could routinely lift 70-pound boxes. I said, “No sweat, daddy-o. Check out these guns!” Things got a little weird and uncomfortable after that, I’ll spare you the details.
Truth be told, the 70-pound boxes aren’t that terrifying anymore. I’ve lost 30-plus pounds of beer weight and my metabolism is roaring like an English soccer match. Hell, I can scarf down pizzas topped with whale blubber and it all burns magically away. The post office is the toughest gym in town. Ha, 70-pound boxes? Bring ’em on!
What about boxes that are 100 pounds? Or 140? What about the box of crowbars that nearly ruined me, last week? Granted, we don’t have to carry these boulders any great distance, but, holy hell! Twelve straight hours of fast-paced gulag labor is taking its toll on a body that had long ago decided short, concentrated bursts of energy was all it took to get through any odious task.
For the first few weeks, upon arriving home at 7 a.m., just as my lovely wife departed for her own job, I was forced to sleep for an hour or two on the sofa, with its granite back support, before my body would unclench enough for the kitten-cloud embrace of my mattress. So couch, which rhymes with ouch = decompression chamber.
I’ve also gotten used to my wife waking me up out of a depthless, dream-gorged slumber at 6 p.m. so that I can make my lunch for work. In two hours. Didn’t I use to do things during the day? Like pay bills, cook, and go to the store? Ah, well.
I always imagined myself as more of a TV show breadwinner from the 1960s. My job wouldn’t matter. I’d leave every morning at 8 wearing a suit (never worn one for a job) and be home for Alice’s famous pork chops by 5:30. You can bet your sweet ass that Mike Brady didn’t have to pack his own lunch, and he damn sure got more than 30 minutes (off the clock) to eat it.
So, yes, I am fully aware that people once stoically worked jobs such as these for their entire adult lives, and somehow found time to raise a family, attend church, and play shortstop for the company softball team. That was a long time ago. We were all younger and jobs were still worth having.
Don’t bother looking for a point; there isn’t one. File this under another chorus of boo-hoo from your friends, the working poor.
Doomed Again 