My husband has said for years that he loves to see me in my working clothes. These days, the working-clothes closet does not include a uniform. But, the closet is still filled with working clothes (even the holey jeans on the floor: garden work). I work a lot. I like to work. I am a happier person when I have "work" that defines the calendar, structures my day, and brings me both a sense of purpose and a few accolades. Did you know that families are rarely aware of how the refrigerator gets filled, or how those shirts and dresses are ironed, or why the dog doesn't pee on the floor anymore? "Work" on the other hand, is more obviously an effort with rewards: paycheck, take-out once in a while, a mom who doesn't hover. Often, dinner is something from a can, and there is usually a list of chores titled "While I'm at work --." My absence is an adventure for everyone!
My problem, if there is one, is that I have no sense of balance. I seem to have lived much of the last few decades with a "When it rains, it pours" philosophy of work -- or work-karma. I am either unemployed (sometimes for very good reasons, like pending or recent childbirth) or rather over-employed (today, I could say that I have NINE jobs, since adjuncts are independent contractors, always). There were a few years when I changed clothes in the car or in the bathroom at work -- the beginnings of my life as a Bag Lady! Does working a lot make me rich? Not always. Does it make me happy? Yes. That's the great secret, or the confession to be made: I really really really
like to work, and working gives me more satisfaction than cooking, cleaning, or house-training the children and the dogs. There simply isn't enough joy in taking care of myself or my family to make the day seem well-spent. In my defense, I would not work this hard for no pay. Those who know me well, know that without work -- the pay, the structure, the sense of purpose -- I am NOT a happy camper.
I descend into some morass of fattening and fatalism, turning inward and then turning vicious -- to myself mostly, though the crankiness gets sprinkled on everyone. I seek always a purpose that will define me; I am a "Do-er" and not much of a "Be-er." While I heartily recommend self-reflection, and I have often indulged in the adventure of self-knowledge, generally speaking, I am aware that my Self does not provide me with enough material to last through more than a day or two. I need the action -- of chores, of work -- to provide my Self with definition and a reason for being. Reading, gardening, watching re-runs of British murder mysteries are escape strategies: escape from either chores or self-reflection.
So it's Sunday. I got up with the sun. There's homework to do (teachers go to school, too!) and more grading, and I must figure out the on-line grade center for that class.... and there's a party at GM's this afternoon, I want to start a few more seeds, and I really have to get to the ironing.... and I am happy.
My problem, if there is one, is that I have no sense of balance. I seem to have lived much of the last few decades with a "When it rains, it pours" philosophy of work -- or work-karma. I am either unemployed (sometimes for very good reasons, like pending or recent childbirth) or rather over-employed (today, I could say that I have NINE jobs, since adjuncts are independent contractors, always). There were a few years when I changed clothes in the car or in the bathroom at work -- the beginnings of my life as a Bag Lady! Does working a lot make me rich? Not always. Does it make me happy? Yes. That's the great secret, or the confession to be made: I really really really
like to work, and working gives me more satisfaction than cooking, cleaning, or house-training the children and the dogs. There simply isn't enough joy in taking care of myself or my family to make the day seem well-spent. In my defense, I would not work this hard for no pay. Those who know me well, know that without work -- the pay, the structure, the sense of purpose -- I am NOT a happy camper.
I descend into some morass of fattening and fatalism, turning inward and then turning vicious -- to myself mostly, though the crankiness gets sprinkled on everyone. I seek always a purpose that will define me; I am a "Do-er" and not much of a "Be-er." While I heartily recommend self-reflection, and I have often indulged in the adventure of self-knowledge, generally speaking, I am aware that my Self does not provide me with enough material to last through more than a day or two. I need the action -- of chores, of work -- to provide my Self with definition and a reason for being. Reading, gardening, watching re-runs of British murder mysteries are escape strategies: escape from either chores or self-reflection.
So it's Sunday. I got up with the sun. There's homework to do (teachers go to school, too!) and more grading, and I must figure out the on-line grade center for that class.... and there's a party at GM's this afternoon, I want to start a few more seeds, and I really have to get to the ironing.... and I am happy.
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