Now, before you assume this is another whiny post about hating my job, let’s be clear: I did not say I hated my job. I said I wish I loved it. Hell, I wish I even liked it. Even a little. But I don’t.
This job is solely perfunctory for me, but it serves its purpose. It provides me with a salary to contribute to my household and health benefits to allow me to see the numerous doctors I see and to purchase the prescription medicines I take. It allows me to help keep a roof over our heads, food on our table, clothes on our back, a car on the road and a limited amount of entertainment funds. All good things, for sure, and I’m grateful to be able to afford the things we need and some of the things we want.
But there is a part of me that cringes over how much time I spend in this cubicle, plugging away at the same data, and dealing with the same B.S., day in and day out, with little to no satisfaction. Every day I drag myself in and count the minutes until I go home. I live for the weekends and holidays and I fret at the years (almost 2 more decades) of time I have to put in here before I can retire. There are days when I absolutely think there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I will be able to last that long. That’s most days, actually.
But I have no real choice. We can’t afford for me to quit my job and there is no alternative work that I can find that would provide a more pleasurable experience. And believe me, I look.
If I’m being honest, however, even if I found “the right job” I might still not be happy with it. The truth is, I long to be a house husband. To get up in the morning and spend the day cleaning house, grocery shopping, cooking, baking, running errands and then have some personal time for the gym and doing some art work. I want to make my own schedule and invest my time and energy in doing the things I love and taking care of the people I love. That’s what I want to do. More than anything. More than any career. It’s an unrealistic dream, I know. I will never have that luxury and, by the time I retire, I will not have the energy to be that kind of person. I will have spent my entire life working at a job that brings me no joy, just to survive until I have burned through the better part of my years and mental stamina. And I won’t be rich for it. I won’t have money to burn and a world waiting for me to explore. I’ll be no better off than I am now, living paycheck to paycheck, saving what I can for small trips to nearby places, budgeting to make it all stretch as far as it will go and wondering how I spent so many years doing this tedious, draining, job with so little to show for it.
Or maybe it’s just this damn cold talking.