Thriving On It
The last few weeks I've sort of been in an impossible situation at work. The department lost 50% of the work force and just before the reduction there were clients added and in the middle of it there was a cortisone shot that sent me wobbling.
You can check the books, but we didn't miss a single appointment over the course of three weeks. There were days when I returned home not knowing where or how I'd visited so many places.
Just one after another.
80 or 90 pages of reports going out the door.
A day.
"You're enjoying it," my beautiful wife said to me over the anniversary dinner on the day that wasn't really our anniversary. "It's an impossible situation and you're happier doing it then waiting for someone to help."
And there's a lot of truth in that.
When it's too tough, it's fun to give it a go.
And it's not like I don't want the help, it's just easier to do it myself than hear the 101 reasons why it can't be done.
There are a lot of people in the work setting who explain to you why something just is out of the realm of possibility. But the secret out there that no one wants to hear is that guys who work in the field of construction are often the very last guys to offer up an excuse.
I know of a crew that is working 70-80 hours a week. Saturday, Sunday, Memorial Day, right through lunch, right past quitting time.
The work is often extremely difficult.
Did you ever stand over solid rock with a chipping hammer taking off one tiny piece at a time?
Have you ever cleaned out old buildings, sifting through discarded, smelly items from years and years ago all the while wearing a Tyvek suit and a respirator? For the ten or eleven dollars an hour you're getting to do it?
There are a ton of guys doing it.
And they get their coffee and horrible sandwich off a truck that stops by to see if they need anything.
They drink water out of a bucket that is most likely filled with bacteria.
And they relieve themselves in a stink-filled box that they share with 25 other guys.
Day after day. Sweat. Blood. Stink. Tired. Sore. Missing their families.
And they do it without whining about how hard they're working.
It's what they do.
They don't count days off or meals missed. They aren't worried about their expense checks.
Work right through it.
It's what makes this country go.
No excuses.
And so that's why I type this with an ice pack on my hip.
It's why I'll shoot out of bed tomorrow before six and not give a thought to anything other than finishing things up by the time the Yankee game starts at 7 p.m.
Because they thrive on it.
When it seems pretty impossible.
You can check the books, but we didn't miss a single appointment over the course of three weeks. There were days when I returned home not knowing where or how I'd visited so many places.
Just one after another.
80 or 90 pages of reports going out the door.
A day.
"You're enjoying it," my beautiful wife said to me over the anniversary dinner on the day that wasn't really our anniversary. "It's an impossible situation and you're happier doing it then waiting for someone to help."
And there's a lot of truth in that.
When it's too tough, it's fun to give it a go.
And it's not like I don't want the help, it's just easier to do it myself than hear the 101 reasons why it can't be done.
There are a lot of people in the work setting who explain to you why something just is out of the realm of possibility. But the secret out there that no one wants to hear is that guys who work in the field of construction are often the very last guys to offer up an excuse.
I know of a crew that is working 70-80 hours a week. Saturday, Sunday, Memorial Day, right through lunch, right past quitting time.
The work is often extremely difficult.
Did you ever stand over solid rock with a chipping hammer taking off one tiny piece at a time?
Have you ever cleaned out old buildings, sifting through discarded, smelly items from years and years ago all the while wearing a Tyvek suit and a respirator? For the ten or eleven dollars an hour you're getting to do it?
There are a ton of guys doing it.
And they get their coffee and horrible sandwich off a truck that stops by to see if they need anything.
They drink water out of a bucket that is most likely filled with bacteria.
And they relieve themselves in a stink-filled box that they share with 25 other guys.
Day after day. Sweat. Blood. Stink. Tired. Sore. Missing their families.
And they do it without whining about how hard they're working.
It's what they do.
They don't count days off or meals missed. They aren't worried about their expense checks.
Work right through it.
It's what makes this country go.
No excuses.
And so that's why I type this with an ice pack on my hip.
It's why I'll shoot out of bed tomorrow before six and not give a thought to anything other than finishing things up by the time the Yankee game starts at 7 p.m.
Because they thrive on it.
When it seems pretty impossible.
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