In the “Mexico” region of Epcot, there is a wonderful display about the Day of the Dead.
I saw this painted on a wall, and my breath caught in my throat …
It was one of those rare moments in life when you say, yes — that is the truth. There is more time than life.
I think of that as I have to coax myself into going to work. I say my gratitudes and one of them certainly is relief that they believe in me and that they pay me.
But the thing is, even though I am not exactly in possession of extra money, I have a profundity of my own. I am pretty sure they need me more than I need them right now.
It’s a powerful feeling. And one they can slap outta me right-quick with a pink slip.
This six-years-too-late empowerment helps me to be bold, for a change. To put my foot down at staying past a certain hour. To yell at the Booger Wooger Bugle Boy they named editorial director when he yells at ME for writing back to customers who have questions when I am the goddamned retention director and — oh hey — I have been corresponding with customers for 20 years buddy FUCK YOU FOR GETTING HANDED THE TITLE I EARNED MOTHERFUCKER.
*ahem*
Ain’t nobody got time for all this.
I spent my 30s-now-40s taking care of mom and not my social life.
I spent my 20s-then-30s-now-40s taking care of everyone else — and truth be told, I didn’t take THAT great a care of mom because I worked too hard for the almighty paycheck.
And I am under no illusion that my 40s-turned-god-willing-into-something-more isn’t going to be spent chasing more money and my tail when it comes to happiness and balance and whatnot.
You know, I was kind of excited about this new venture we’re doing. We cut out most of the overhead (dead salary weight, make no mistake) and kept the underpaid people who are the hardest workers.
For the most part, anyway — there’s still Booger-Eater and a few others who can eat more than what their snoot produces, as far as the rest of us are concerned.
And as I return to juggling 17 jobs because no one else is there to do them … and Boogie-Woogie refuses to take on the jobs I’m supposed to part with … I think, wow.
I mean, I gave up my life for LVP. AND FOR WHAT? Promises of riches and company ownership and other perks that, after five years, never came? That fucker never worked past 4 p.m. And the time leading up to 4 p.m. was filled with braggadocios stories about his arrests and $100 steaks he’s eaten and thousand-dollar wines and trips on his BFF’s yacht. Never a productive minute of supervision or coaching or a supportive word for any of us. And no bonuses/ownership/CREDIT as far as the eye could see.
*ahem*
I have not lived, is the point of all this. Sure, I’ve had fun. Tried to give us a good little life. But the only thing crueler than anyone I’ve ever worked for is time itself.
There’s always more than enough work to go around. And for all our complaining that “there isn’t enough time,” well, there really is. The collective we just fuck up royally when it comes to using it.
I can’t get time back. And maybe I can’t get my life back, per se, when I never really HAD one.
But, well. You know. I’m thinking it’s high time to add some life to all that time.
And this all *waves hands* ain’t the way to do it.