Reactionary

“I wish…”

I say it all the time. Usually it’s in reference to a bit of cash I wish I had to make things happen. I’m so strapped for time (between work and packing lunch, and working out, and commuting) there is no time to even LIVE anymore in the proper sense of the word. One of the surgeons was saying something to the effect of how we work so much in this country. I guess he had been talking to an Italian doctor and the guy had said something like, “You Americans live to work while we work to live.”

It’s true. The way work is perceived in this country, you must sell your soul over to the corporations in order for your life to have any meaning. I don’t work because it makes me proud of myself, makes me feel good about myself or important. Actually, it reminds me too much of my own insignificance, especially how small that is in someone else’s eyes. Someone I don’t respect. I work to pull a paycheck, not to contribute to humanity or anything else. One of the older nurses was talking about that with one of the doctors at work over a year ago. I think I blogged about it. She said something like the younger generation just has no loyalty. No, I don’t, and no, I don’t think I should. Why should I sell myself over to someone who doesn’t give a damn about me any more than my fitness to labor beneath them. I want to buy my life back, more than the trip at the end of September.

If I had the money, I’d pay someone to clean my apartment. It’s a demeaning job plusly, I don’t have time to do it. And I hate dirt. Fatigue has driven me, an avowed environmentalist, to using paper plates and cups nearly every night (when I make food). When I get takeaway, it’s a given the utensils will be disposable. The chore I hate the most is washing dishes. Food-generated filth is 50% of the reason I don’t cook more. I hate and despise it. I hate food smells other than those emanating from my meal at that very moment it will be eaten.

If I had the cash, I’d definitely have a typist who could for once log in those stories I’d written into the computer. I have to write on actual paper when doing something more than a blog post and thusly, half that stuff will never see the light of day. I’m a slow typer when copying from a piece of paper because I keep losing my place and that makes my neck hurt.

If I could, I’d employ a personal masseuse and aesthetician to keep me chilled out. A standing RSVP at my favorite city spa would be a dream come true.

Lastly, but far from leastly, I’d hire a gopher or BS-dealer-wither. Someone to filter my mail, pay my bills (rent via check is driving me nuts, I don’t have time to remember to do it!), make my RSVPs, anticipate my needs. In general, a concierge would be great. It took me four days to sign up for two lectures at the Constitution Center because I don’t have time to make phone calls during the day and that’s when their ticket office is open, during the day. Frustrating without equal.

I read on CNN/Money once about a hospital system in Ohio (Midwest someplace, anyway, who the hell cares) which employed full-time concierges for the staff. That would go a long way to boosting morale. But since my place of employment seems to think I love THEM for employing ME, I can but dream until my long-lost wealthy relative bites it and leaves me all his money.

As far as “It Would Be Nice But It Can’t Be Done No Matter How Rich You Are”, I wish I could pay someone to go the dentist and get stuff done for me. Like a dental whipping boy. If that were possible, I’d find a way to afford it.

Get Paid For Blogging.

August 30th, 2006 | Category: Life |  Print |  Send it | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL