Labor Pains

Work is sort of settling into a rhythm. I am not entirely sure itʼs a rhythm I am going to enjoy. But my partner and I are making considerable progress, averaging more than twenty traps a day (including two-mile by two-mile squares where we couldnʼt locate a usable ash tree), which she seems to believe is very fine work. On the other hand, the work has me feeling not so fine, physically and intellectually (inflicting some pain and some stress).

All work is stressful. When folks have asked me about retirement, I have almost invariably responded, “Any day spent not working beats every day of work.” And itʼs true. Just knowing I have to get up and get going to the job induces a mental burden that we all accept for granted while working. My retirement interruptus has just made me aware of blissful life without that psychological pressure. Furthermore, the job is just lots of effort. And time.

I had, in anticipation, after my interview back in late February, thought that the (federal-budget-induced) ten-hour days, providing a whole Friday each week just for me and not for work, would be a good thing. I hadnʼt beforehand, however, thought about how physically demanding (at least on an old guy) ten hours in the field would be. (However, currently I would be happy if each day were only ten hours long. So far that hasnʼt yet happened. And the work is wearing me out.)

On Tuesday, I got in my whole ten hours and nearly two more and then did the little daily chores around the house — fixing breakfast (cutting up a grapefruit, not so hard) and making lunch (a couple of salads — most of the work is ripping up lettuce leaves and remembering The Lovely One likes hers with, in order, nuts, berries cheese and then chicken). Finishing, I felt like maybe I too would relax now and watch the final few minutes of the ninety-minute, Gaga-esque episode of Glee that Janet was enjoying (her job has made her endure even more — and progressive — stress than I have been discovering), when I remembered, after an ungentle nudge from my beloved (I told you she was feeling some stress lately) that I had promised to buy necessary groceries after work on Monday, which hadnʼt happened when my ten hours extended toward twelve that evening also. So I wearily redressed in out-of-house attire and headed away to Fareway. (I did feel good to accomplish the promised task.)

Worse, the physical effort is telling on my antique physique (such as it is). My elbows and knuckles have constant hurts (the elbows escalating at times and in certain positions to actual pain, the hands and digits acting up so my typing, as right now, is fifty percent more inaccurate than usual) that keep me from dropping off to sleep and have increased my aspirin/ibuprofen intake (particularly for bedtime). I am, after all, a physical worker in this job, as I was only periodically and briefly as a teacher. (Bah. I just misspelled more than half the words in the previous sentence, including the word “sentence, ” twice, in this parenthetical remark. Symptomatic.)

So I hurt and I feel the stress of having to go to work. Poor, poor pitiful me (or some semblance of those letters nearly randomly scattered or missed — thanks for spell-checking, small miracle these days). I donʼt mean to whine, but itʼs all true, too.

I am weeks/months (meaning issues and issues) behind on my magazine-reading. The stack by my favorite chair in the living room is disgusting (and wonʼt get reduced this weekend). And it keeps growing every time I fetch in the mail. Sigh. I try to read something for pleasure every evening, just as I did in teaching days — my only and minor escape. Again.

And worst of all, my partner likes AM talk radio. I have had to endure the venal and false Tush Rimblow (decipher that one, if necessary) daily. For two solid, self-serving, rant-filled, deceptive and distorted whining, braying hours each afternoon. That mental and spiritual torture may be the heaviest straw of all.

©2011 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

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