There's something to be said about a job that you enjoy doing that won't allow you to do overtime. I'd call it ideal if the pay were a little higher. For now, I'll just call it nice. I've put in 37 hours and temporal change already this week, which means that tomorrow is going to be a very short workday on a day when the weather's been promised to be very spring-like. Weather forecasters, don't fail me now.
See, here's my problem. I was born either with a slacker gene or without a workaholic gene. Either way, I prefer a life without overtime, be it voluntary, mandatory or something in between. It's not that I want my workday to end abruptly after 8 hours. I just seem to do my best within the 40-hour work week. There has to be some reason why those who came before us decided on the magical number of 40 as the point where time and a half begins.
Don't get me wrong. Yes, I have expenses like everyone else -- food, shelter, taxes, internet access, kitty litter. My portion of the national debt could buy a very nice little used car like the one I'm driving and still making payments on. But, my desire to get away from even the nicest job and do something else overrides the drive to make more money by putting in hours that only caffeine (or worse) could maintain. This could easily change if my expenses increased dramatically; however, I live a simple life with simple needs and only catastrophe could take me back down the road of full-time and part-time jobs running simultaneously. I've done that a few times and earned that grubby, tattered t-shirt. But, I really don't want to wear it again.
Now, where are those cobblestones that I can be kicking down and feeling groovy?
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