Resort

Posted to Work on 19 February 2007.

by CD Collins—Age 33—Cooperstown, NY

You don’t work, you don’t eat, man. That’s the bare bones of it, although it gets way more complicated than that. It is the acid test of our lives, the measure, the worth, etcetera. After a BS in English and a BS in Philosophy, I do the same JOB as the one that allowed me to pursue higher education. I am a cook in a resort hotel. My work, however, is an entirely different story. In today’s postmodern world it’s easy to become confused about the distinction. My work is to understand the world more fully, collect wisdom, and express and convey it in an articulate manner. My job is to prepare filet mignon smothered in foie-gras and exotic mushrooms, which has very little to do with my work aside from providing a pretty good window into everyday life and paying the electric bill so I can write this. My job enables; it is fund-raising for the most worthy charity around. My work rewards and is significant and broadens my understanding of what it means to be alive.

I get to live in a picture-perfect village on a ten-mile lake, survive on 30,000 dollars a year and have plenty of time to contemplate the effects of unplugging myself from the rat race. I can forget about making a name for myself, piles of money, credit cards and mortgages. My classmates have gone on to bigger and better, I’d bet their teeth are ground raw to the nerve and their ulcers scream for relief. I understand that I will never “get anywhere” but little do they know, I am already there, waiting for them and most of the rest of the world to knock on my door in the middle of the night, I’ll be awake.

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