You Couldn’t Pay Me Enough!

I think having a job is a lot like aging. As big a drag as both of them are, they sure beat the alternative. As Drew Carey said, “Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY. They meet at the bar. “In all actuality, however, I like working. Lazing around the house in my jammies till noon and then wasting the rest of the day would get real old, real fast. A person needs purpose, A person needs direction. A person needs beer money. A person needs to not only put food on the table but also house that table. A few utilities are nice, too. And a satellite dish.

Mind you, it is insane to work at a job you hate, given what a huge chunk of your waking hours are spent at it. Sure, I have to deal with the public (Ewww!) but I see that as a plus. One of the worst things a job can be (along with “dangerous”, “illegal”, or includes the phrase “do you want fries with that?”) is for it to be boring. With customer service, however, every conversation with a client is as unique as the clients themselves. Each interaction keeps the job fresher than a TimBit during the breakfast rush.

Of course, there are jobs no one actually likes; serving TimBits during the breakfast rush, for example, but there are far worse. There are people that make their living smelling underarms for deodorant manufacturers. There are people who provide for their families by handling loads of excrement; sucking out septic systems,video-taping sewers or writing political speeches.

Speaking of which, I think the worst job of all would be President of the United States. Can you imagine having 300 million bosses, each with a different viewpoint on how the job should be done? Having a herd of reporters (A flock? A murder? A pride?) reporting on your mistakes as you try and do your job would be a pain in the posterior, to say the least. Can you imagine all those scrum-suckers looking over your shoulder while you're just trying to do your job? How embarrassing the headlines would be! “President McKerracher Screws Up Visa Charge For Customer.”

“President McKerracher Attacks Office Photocopier In Frustration.”
“President McKerracher Quits; Tells Press Corps to Go Scribe Themselves.”

Of course there would be plusses to the job of President. You wouldn't need to carry cash on you,. The chance of the motorcade stopping at a 7-11 for Slurpees is infinitesimal. You also would get the best hiding place for when 2012 hits and it's the end of the world as we know it. (“And I feel fine.”) Still, weathering a nuclear winter, environmental destruction, a plague of zombies  or whatever may befall us with a bunch of generals, senior bureaucrats and politicians doesn't sound like much fun. Maybe with the Pussycat Dolls, it might be okay. And a dart league with free beer.

I am frankly amazed, however, that every job gets filled. What would make a person who has just gone to school for many years to become a doctor and then remain in school for another four years to specialize in proctology? Don't get me wrong. I have a fundamental respect for these brave folk... the rear guard of the nation. But man! You couldn't pay me enough to be one.

Same goes for other medical practiconers. People who give barium enemas cheerfully, professionally and as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances, (a staggering feat indeed), I think they deserve a medal.  I can only imagine how poorly I would do at it.

Me, “Here, let me just grab this hose Mr. Shmidlap and... oh my.... I don't feel SO good...  OH NO! HAND ME THAT BEDPAN! STAT!”

No amount of monetary reward could not induce me to get into such a field. It even grosses me out to consider hairdressers have to touch other people's heads all day.

I also wouldn't be a farmer for anything, either. They must be absolutely nuts. I mean; these guys even take on full time jobs to subsidize their farming habit if need be. It isn't a job, it's a lifestyle choice. They get up at the crack of dawn to get on horseback to round up the chickens or whatever the heck farmers do, even as the rest of the world lies in bed til their snooze alarms have gone off ten or twelve times. Who else would keep us in meat? Who else would gamble their entire annual income on the vagaries of Canadian weather? Who else would keep the coffee shops in business?

There are many other unpleasant vocations. There's the photo-radar tech on Highway 60, as you're  driving by Devon, who spends his working life in a truck in the ditch, helping people have a crappy day. Then there's the job that bringer of happiness and joy to all, the telephone solicitors who, in the course of their daily work, are yelled at, sworn at and hung up on. And that's just from Cupcake. I'd put her on that “no call” list but I'd much rather she let off steam on them than me.

I will leave the last word to Oscar Wilde, “The best way to appreciate your job is to imagine life without one.”