Back in the golden olden days when I was a shoe store stock clerk, I always knew when Iíd worked hard enough by how much my feet and legs and back hurt at the end of the day. When I became a shoe store manager, things didnít change much. Thatís part of the reason I didnít do well as manager. I still wanted to do everything myself.
And now I have a cushy desk job, right? Iím an ďoffice managerĒ and a ďcorporate directorĒ and a ďmemberĒ of the limited liability company that owns a kennel that isnít really a kennel. My feet and legs and back should feel the way they did when I was twenty. Sadly, thatís not really the case, especially on a day like this. One thing remains the same, though. I can still tell, in certain parts of my body, when Iíve worked hard enough. Today was such a day.
Earlier this week I admitted to the Boss that Iím falling behind. I blamed it on some of the new reports the government is requiring, and changes in the workers compensation law, and anything I else I could think of that didnít point back at me. I could probably get everything done on time if (a) I really were still twenty, or (2) I put a little more effort into it. Iím always willing to blame myself, to myself. Iím a little less willing to blame myself to the person who pays me. Itís a matter of self-preservation.
Back in the golden olden days, I thought nothing of staying up all night and working on spreadsheets. I thought I was quite the diligent office drone, but it was really just the novelty of having a computer in my own home, and learning bit by bit (almost literally) how to make it work. Nothing I do these days engages me quite that much. I still stay up all night sometimes, but not to work.