Saturday, July 26, 2014


I've been thinking about my worst job lately. I've had quite a few jobs, some I loved, some were just okay. They put food on the table. Teaching, house-cleaning, retail, babysitting, all sorts. All jobs have their triumphs, their trying moments. But what makes a worst job?

Was it the discomfort? Standing in the back of a semi-trailer selling houseplants in a parking lot in the full sun of a hot summer day? No, that was okay. I liked the plants, and there was a DQ in the next parking lot. Was it fear of lurking danger? I had one baby-sitting job where the child was referred to by the mother as "The Monster." My entire responsibility was to make sure she didn't kill her brother while the parents were gone. They also had a psychotic Siamese cat. The cat was fine, as long as you didn't move. Otherwise it would attack and bite. "The Monster" and the cat got along fine; she would deposit it in my lap, and then take off after her brother, leaving me to ponder exactly whose blood did I want to be cleaning up. The pay was excellent. I learned to wear very thick clothing.

So what makes a job bad? Perhaps just the attitude you bring to it, or the lack of respect you encounter. Me, I'm just happy I survived the psychotic Siamese.

No comments:

Post a Comment