I don’t like my job. I don’t hate it, I just don’t like it. Each week, I spend a minimum of 40hrs in a grey office at my old, beat up desk doing mundane work. Rarely do I interact with people. My work life is much like Groundhog Day.
I come in, pass the angry secretary who wears too much makeup and, more notably, too much perfume. I get coffee from the break room which always smells of garbage and the stench of microwaved meals…eggs, fish, and my least favorite Canadian bacon. I go to a meeting in a dark dusty meeting room where we sit in uncomfortable old chairs and rehash the outcome of other meetings. I stir creamer brought from home into the bitter office coffee to make it palatable. I work for a few hours then take a break since sitting for so long in a well used office chair from the early-mid 1990’s becomes progressively more uncomfortable as the day passes. There are men in the entrance hall taking personal calls on their cell phones in hushed voices with eyes darting on the lookout for management. Never women in the entrance hall taking secret calls, just men. I wonder why it’s only men…
The job pays just well enough to pay the bills plus a little extra. I try to save the extra but it is often spent on a once weekly date night or on repairing some vital part of modern life. I am far from leading a “rich life”. My weekly surplus can be easily spent on a dinner for two adults at a mediocre restaurant not including drinks. Isn’t that pitiful?
I know. I know. I shouldn’t complain because at least I have a job. At least I’m not on public assistance. At least things aren’t worse and things could always be worse. On one hand I am thankful to have a job that pays the bills. On the other hand, I don’t like the mind numbing banality day after day that makes me feel like I’m wasting my life.