Last night I didn’t get home from work until 10:30 p.m. This only happens once a quarter, when the earnings release needs to be run through with a fine toothed comb, so it’s more exciting and novel (with free pizza) than it is a pain in the ass. Plus, the person with whom I have to work with on this late night is one of my favorite people at work, so it was no big deal. It could be a whole lot worse.<\/p>\n
I’m starting to feel the wear of not only working for a giant company with obvious corporate bloat, but also just a job that I’ve done for six months now. Much like my dating history, I have a tolerance point that, once reached, signals drastic change. For the former, it’s about a year. For the latter, it’s six months.<\/p>\n
I’m obviously becoming more mature, as I have not freaked out and found a new sig.oth. or a new job. (I think the relative sanity of the boyfriend does directly influence the job tolerance.)<\/p>\n
That doesn’t mean that I’m not tempted. (I’m mostly talking about jobs, here.) Living in the city during the summer means kickball league and movies in the park. I don’t know what living in the suburbs is going to turn out like. I do know that there’s a pool at my apartment complex, I live next door to a go-cart track and mini golf course, and I live 6 minutes from Six Flags. That doesn’t sound bad in theory, but I don’t know how it will turn out.<\/p>\n
There are still 2 months before Allison Darling Lyman comes to spend the summer at Camp Bucket of Sunshine. (It’s a boot camp for souls who have lived in Iowa City too long and have chronic disenchantment. I think my sister is signing up for a two-week course.)<\/p>\n
Anyway, back to my identity working at a large company – I realized today that as much as I’ve learned from working here, I know I’ll never wholly identify with those who make this their career. I realized this as I used the copy room staple remover to pry out the staples that attached the ‘$.90’ tag to my thrift store belt.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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