In a world of romantic booby-traps, disconnection from the cultural Zeitgeist, abandonment of youthful aspirations in favor of midlife comfort -- the survivalist pragmatism of settling and selling out -- my job has become the most centering and validating part of my life. Which is not something I have ever felt before. Now I understand that 50something year-old man who lives and breathes for work. The friend's dad who drove us around but never really talked. The persnickety middle-manager who didn't have a life. The guy who pays for whores he may or may not be able to get it up for but who's always a good listener. The man at the end of the bar who reads his paper with bifocals, confronting daily on some soft, unspeakable level the astonishing realization that no matter how self-sabotaging or destructive he may be, he's probably not going anywhere anytime soon. The guy, at last, who looks at young people and their styles and ways with equal derision and disorientation and, thankfully, not one ounce of envy or empathy. And on Sunday as the sun goes down and shift back to accountability and duty is so embedded it's part of his circadian rhythm, he can't wait to get up and go to work on Monday.
No comments:
Post a Comment