Tag: workaholics

Jobs

I walk to work every morning. It’s a short, yet painful, trudging along uneven paths alongside heavy vehicles and motorbikes that zap by on full throttle.

But I shouldn’t complain. Because every day I see someone who deserves to spend an entire day nestled in a well-furnished, air-conditioned, room pitying himself.

He’s a family man in his late fifties, by the looks of him. I see him quite early in the morning—about 7:30 am—so judging by his eyes, he works all night. His job is to stand in front of a restaurant, wave a baton, and usher ongoing vehicles to stop by for a meal. The restaurant pays him to be their traffic generator.

This hotel is on the national highway (or freeway), and so there are thousands of vehicles—lorries, private cars, motorbikes—passing by every night. And because it’s dark, his baton lights up like Luke Skywalker’s Lightsaber.

It’s his job. It’s fine. It’s tiring, but he gets paid. He stands all night, but he gets paid. It’s a menial job, but it’s only one in many such jobs.

I understand, and so does everyone else who walks or whizzes past him every day. But I don’t understand why he waves to passing vehicles on broad daylight, trying to usher the most unlikeliest of drivers.

Often thinking about him, I’ve concluded he does it out of practice. He’s so used to trying to attract motorists that he doesn’t even realise the futility of waving at bicyclists at 8 in the morning. Sometimes he stands there, swaying half-asleep, yet waving his baton hoping someone would pull over.

No one would pull over.

As I pass him everyday, I see quivering within him a soul that triggers on the border of giving up. It’s as if there’s no longer hope and liveliness left in his bereft life.

I hate my work sometimes, but I don’t hate my job. Though on some days I don’t even feel like going to work, I know there’s always a reason for me to go. Something pulls me forward, encouraging me to keep one foot in front of the other. It’s hard to find motivated days at times, but I know they’re there. Because on a deeper level, I still find meaning in what I do.

He doesn’t.

And seeing him live such a mechanical life, waving his arms like a madman, sleepless, lifeless, and soul-less, puts so many things in perspective. Not everyone has the luxury to do what they’d like. Life thrusts on some of us a fate they wouldn’t even wish on their vilest enemy. It’s the reality of our world, a harsh undesirable reality.

If we realise that, perhaps we’d be more thankful for what we do have.

Habits can kill

“Routine is lethal”

A confidant once told me that routine is lethal. Because it sounded sophisticated and kind of cool, I agreed without a second thought. It also made so much sense to me—too much of anything is good for nothing, right?

But in the three years since I first heard that statement, I’ve been mulling it over in my brain so many times that I’ve begun to see it from a different angle. Even though I’m still in vehement agreement with that idea, I can’t help but wonder if there’s another perspective to it.

I follow a routine. I wake up at the same time each day and end up at work well before anyone else. I do that on purpose because I like getting in some quiet hours before people start coming in and continue the previous day’s gossip. Small talk is an essential part of the morning for most people and even though I don’t engage, it’s distracting to be around it. My solution to avoiding it is to work up a routine where I work earlier than the rest of them.

Not only do I finish a lot of my work, but I’m also more peaceful at mind. I enjoy the silence and the space it gives me to muse on my musings. I love that routine. In the same way, I leave work at the same time every day so I can get some me-time. It’s another routine that prioritises me and one I’m happy to fall into.

Routines aren’t lethal. They’re lifesaving.

However, the more I wondered about my friend’s statement, and the more I pondered on my own reality, I soon understood that there’s another side to this coin.

Sometimes routines become so routine that we lose sight of their purpose. We start doing things just for the sake of doing them, forgetting why we even do them in the first place. Most people stuck at a nine-to-five job don’t realise they’re stuck.

There’s a fine line between those who choose to follow a routine because they want to and those who follow a routine because that’s the norm. I’ve made that mistake myself and every time I catch myself doing something out of habit rather than of conscious choice, I find that it’s stresses me out.

I get frustrated that I’m doing this thing that I don’t want to but have to because that’s how I’ve always done it.

It’s senseless. It’s useless. And that’s the kind of routine that can kill our soul. Now that’s lethal.

Workplace matters

“It’s upto you. Find a creative way to handle this.”

“But—”

“You’re an adult. This is a workplace. You should be able to deal with petty things like this.”

A lewd co-worker isn’t a petty thing, Meriam wanted to scream. But it was her first week at her first job. She didn’t want to screw things up for herself. She left the HR cubicle ransacking her brain and digging into the flesh of her fingers.

It hadn’t taken long to land her in an asylum. A couple of months— that’s all he’d needed to neutralise her, her reality as imagination.

Master of none

“Carl! How’re ya?”

Carl looked up “Hi, Mark. All good, tha — ”

“Quick favour. Can you conjour up a poster for us? Nothing too fancy—we’re organising a last-minute event, and need designs ASAP.”

Carl sent the memo he’d been proofreading for Jason, and then turned to Mark smiling. “Sure. I’ll be happy — ”

“Cheers, life saver. Drinks on me, Friday!”

Carl had spent the morning proofreading his team mates’ work, before tackling Jason’s memo. It took him all evening — amidst discussions, brainstorming sessions, and distractions—to finish Mark’s designs.

By 7, he’d done everyone’s job but his.

Tomorrow, perhaps.

*Ping* “u thr?”