Today was a hard-working day. I'm not talking about mentally difficult, like working on some computer problem, or emotionally difficult, like trying to help someone deal with a deep personal tragedy. This was a manual labour day, full of back-breaking, 110 ° (F), Hebrew-slave-type work.
There is a part of me that loves this type of work. I find it extremely gratifying to see the younger men fall to the wayside while I keep working. There is a certain satisfaction that comes from looking back at the work you have done at the end of the day and knowing that you gave all that you had and did a good job. And when you lay down at night (earlier than usual), you can sleep easy, knowing that you traded a good, honest day's labour for your pay.
Then, of course, there are the other parts of me that disagree violently with the first part and would beat it down and lock it in a closet if they could. These are the parts of me that prefer the intelectual challenges that come from computer work, or supervising a crew of working people to guide a task to completion. You know, the lazy parts of me.
Why is it that people need to work? We all seem to have this compulsion toward some kind of gainful employment. There are much easier ways to live, if you are resourceful and willing to do without some of the trappings of a capatalistic society. And yet work is so important to us that it has become our very identity.
Ask a random stranger who they are, and you might be suprised that they generally answer with their occupation. "I'm a policeman," or "I'm a lawyer." (Neither of which I am, by the by). Unemployment has become the second-worst social sin in western society, and one which we cannot seem to forgive.