I never understood why when adults went to work, they always complained about it, wishing their time would pass by quickly so they could get to the eternal destination, the weekend. The idea that you want to make hours of your rather limited lifetime simply disappear seemed illogical. I vowed never to do so. Then, I got my first job.
Of course, one cannot expect much of a first job, and I landed on something that with my seemingly low writable qualifications was what you’d call “nice.” Except that it wasn’t nice. A good company, workplace, and co-workers cannot make up for the experience of a brain vacuum. I would go around organizing clothes in the boutique, contemplating various ideas, trying to justify the enormous waste of capability I was experiencing. My brain was standing there ready to crunch calculus equations, and I was telling it to shut up, that it’s unnecessary. I tried to look through the shelves to perhaps find patterns or make connections. When customers would come in, I would stand there trying to guess there life stories along with their buying inclinations. And yet, my time for sociology and logic was so dreadfully rare, I thought it a luxury.
Often I looked at a piece of clothing there, and converted the price to hours I have to work. In a sense, if you don’t love what you do, an item is worth a certain number of hours of your life. It’s a frightening price to pay. I hope that now that I see it, I’ll do all that’s in my power to never pay this way again.