Worked all day

Worked all day

I nearly missed MLK Day, at least it seemed that way to me. I was doing my job, trying to connect with my accounts. I like meeting, talking over needs, wants and goals. I work for their goals, and in doing so I find my time is not my own. To me, work has been that, not my time, but to those whom I serve.

I’ve lived a service life. Considered a quintessential passage to adulthood, my college education often included over 30 hours a week of hourly wage work. The majority of it was for minimum wage, a wholly disconcerting, and egregious undertaking during the early to late 80’s. Regress a bit more and I recall hoping my servile work around the house would mend my parents broken relationship, causing them to remain bonded. Later I worked odd babysitting, paper route, and dish washing gigs, starting around 12 yrs of age.

I recall resentment, and to this day that emotion or reflection upon life must be tempered with the wisdom of age.  I recall a life of mistrust, scapegoat, and misused youth, or being bullied at school. When I think about that last, I minimize; was being cold-cocked in the chin by the jock quarterback during gym class really so bad? What of being tripped in the hall so I bit my lip and hurt my elbows and knees? Is being ridiculed for various reasons the way my appearance offended someone…?! For years after, I rejected social life hiding in the least outward activities. Why make a big deal out of it? Who cares, right? Someone later, I was about 16 used to tell me: “you’ll get over it”. Maybe.

I’m too old to rehash it, but as I’ve written the memory it’s obviously still there, piques me and flows as if I were in need of release? That’s where working all day must come in. I’ve worked so much, and upon reflection, where has my past shaped how I meet that challenge? Perhaps, it’s the stoic gene of my ancestry, or the callous of life, or there really is something of quality, those interactions with my accounts, where I get respect, give respect and am paid for doing the hard work.

I would write, and do many varied intellectually stimulating things had I the means, and that wealth called time. I would like to draw again, write poetry more often, learn to play guitar, sing, visit galleries, museums and venues of interest. But, I work too much, way too much, and it’s to the end. What else can it be?

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