You can’t really call this a career. By definition, career implies a kind of trajectory, doesn’t it? A climb up the corporate ladder. It conjures images of fancy offices, business suits, expense accounts, that kind of stuff.
I don’t have a job like that. I don’t even have dreams of a job like that. So the title ‘career move’ is an outright embellishment — itself a snazzy way of saying I’m lying through my teeth.
You see, my new situation is temp work, at best, and a gig, at worst. But even that sounds a little lofty. I mean, the job doesn’t even have a title, aside from the generic, all-purpose ‘low man on the totem pole.’ This is dues paying, ladies and gentlemen, plain and simple.
What I do is collate documents, I stuff envelopes, I fold and tape and label. For a refreshing change of pace, I enter time sheet data into a computer and meter the mail. In essence, I do whatever no one else is interested in doing. This is not challenging work, but, oh my, there are advantages.
The hours, for one thing: eight in the morning until 2 in the afternoon, who wouldn’t love that shift? There’s no dress code, either. You can wear whatever you want — this is a jeans and t-shirts workplace. (Possibly shorts and t-shirts in the summer, I’ll have to get back to you on that.) Best of all, there’s a noticeable lack of ass-kissing and brown-nosing and backbiting. The people are genuinely helpful and friendly.
All in all, this was a good move. Heck, it was a master stroke. Why? Mainly because there’s no freezer involved. You see, for a short time last winter I stocked them — freezers, that is. I spent hours filling icy shelves with boxes and bags and cans of frozen foods — everything from waffles to fish sticks to orange juice. If it was frozen, I toted it. And in the middle of the night, too. I was miserable.
By comparison, this is the lap of luxury. However, I would like to get my hands on the sticky-fingered dope who stole my rain jacket from the break room last week. If anyone sees a Marmot Precip, bright blue, size M, with a hole in one pocket, let me know. I have a can of whoop-ass I’m dying to open.
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