Honk If You Hate Your Job

There are probably surveys to confirm or refute this, but I'm on my 27-minute lunch break and don't have time to look it up:

90% of Americans hate their job.

Okay maybe it isn't that high. Maybe I'm just old and bitter. It could be that 89.2% of Americans are just damn glad to have a job. The other 10% are unemployed.

Working for a living, particularly for a large, impersonal outsource-you-tomorrow corporation is a bitter slog, a drudge through eternal winter. It grays and dulls us. We are bent by years of mind-numbing policy emails and sunny updates on new company initiatives. If you have a job like mine, the customers' shrill dissatisfaction rings in your ear like an out-of-tune heavy metal band. The sound of the missed high C of bitter invective will never stop ringing in my ears.

I hate my job. I dread it every day. I log in with a heavy sigh and spend the whole day with one eye on the digital clock in the lower right hand corner of the monitor, just praying for the next nine or 27-minute interlude of blessed silence, when I can wolf down a sandwich or granola bar in relative piece.

I know I have a bad attitude. I should count my blessings, or think of the wonderful possibilities my work creates for me, health insurance and money to buy food and a roof over my head. But on a day-to-day basis, it seems like a bad trade. You know in primitive societies the hunter-gatherers work about 10 hours a week? The rest of the time they spend in the social unit, embracing their babies and singing and crafting and telling stories. They sleep peacefully in their primitive huts. They never wake up in a cold sweat wondering, "what if I lose my job?"

This worst part is, I'm really terrible at it. I work in customer service and the longer I do the more I discover, I really don't like people. I'm terribly misplaced. I should have planned better and become an accountant or an IT guy, someone who can hide behind mountains of data, someone who is expected to be surly and arrogant. Yeah, that's the real me. I should have been a contender, a famous writer, or the discoverer of the post-it note. But here I am, 2nd cubicle from the window, staring out with a sad resigned sigh. What was I thinking, fool?

I can't imagine what it would be like not to be the minion of some petty middle manager, not to suffer and dread work. Some people somewhere enjoy what they do and feel useful, feel confident they are valuable to their employers and secure in their future. That must be wonderful. I hate my job. And the day I lose it will be a terrifying and awful day. I'm getting older, that's sure, but I'm not getting any smarter. If I don't win a big jackpot or get discovered by a long lost rich uncle it's going to be a very uncertain year.