My friend Carol
was born and raised on a farm in Iowa which means she can make a battery out of
potatoes and sew a coat from tablecloth, along with a bunch of other domestic
and agrarian things that confuse me. Carol
can talk to anyone, so we’ll go grab a beer somewhere and I’ll come back from
the bathroom to find her holding forth with a ragtag bunch of guys about some
economic or scientific theory she’s basically just pulling out of her ass. Dang, I love this gal.
Carol’s
right about most everything, and though I happily go along with her
mostly-made-up rants there’s always a nugget of truth in there. Freud said happiness lies in finding “work
and love,” and on both subjects, my buddy Carol would say, “ah, that’s bullshit.” And she’s right. Romance fades in like three
weeks and almost all jobs involve walking around with pieces of paper,
pretending you’re overworked and serious. Of course, this doesn’t work on a
farm, but after her first corporate-type gig, she said that if you just look
busy for the first six months, everyone will be impressed and you can skate for
the rest of your time there.
“Act
frazzled and serious,” she’d say, taking a long drag on a cigarette, “then
don’t worry ‘bout a thing.”
First,
I should tell you she quit smoking but she always looked so cool that I’m gonna
take up smoking when I’m about 75.
Secondly, I’ve tested her work theory in about a million settings and
she’s right. Maybe this is why everyone
seems so frantically busy. Have you
noticed that? Shoot, everyone’s in a
frenzy of busyness all the time, breathlessly doing something and acting all
exasperated about how busy they are
and I guess, how important everything
is. An economist from the UK named David
Graeber wrote an essay in 2013 about
bullshit jobs, and now a book of the same title. The jobs with the most
benefit to everyone – garbage collectors, teachers, mechanics and nurses – are
often the lowest-paid while feckless folks in management, “consulting,”
financial services, public relations, and private equity funds bring home big
bacon. It’s ass-backwards.
(A young person) finds some job, finally, where you might feel like a grown up and BAM, by day three you realize this is a nightmare.
I
feel bad for young people going into the work force because so-called adults
ahead of you are boring, obsessed with security, often real asshats and
generally mediocre in all things. Oddly,
these qualities seem to get them promoted, so you come all shiny out of high
school or college (with the requisite crushing debt) and find some job,
finally, where you might feel like a grown up and BAM, by day three you realize
this is a nightmare.
I’ve
been a teacher, a litigation attorney, an EMT, hospital chaplain, writer,
nonprofit director, consultant, risk manager, and ranch hand; I’ve worked with
doctors, lawyers, ski patrollers, cowboys, rich people, do-gooders, corporate
drones, vendors, salespeople, educators, and – scariest of all – people who think
they’re “spiritual.” Every workplace is
the same. Wherever people gather to get
something done, there’s a pecking order – real or imagined – and a bunch of
screwballs. There’s waste, monotony, “mission statements,” and somebody’s
freaking kid selling cookies.
You
know what I really want to be? A
bum. Like a baby or a black lab – bums for
sure - I just want to hang around,
rolling on the grass (that’s the baby part) or following my nose to some great
smell that makes my heart sing. What’s
all this frantic human rushing about? I
think people work so they can buy more shit, once the basic needs are met (and
remember - plenty of people can’t even get those basic needs met because the
income gap is now wider than our ever-widening asses). Let’s be real: it’s important to buy food,
right? But everything else is just grist for a landfill. And everything you buy
ties you tighter to the mast.
Most
of my life I’ve changed jobs like underwear.
Guess I’m a 60-something millennial because word is that young people
just quit stuff they don’t like. While
it may drive their parents insane, I say good
on ya. As long as you’re not
mooching off others, and meeting your obligations what difference does your job
make, and why stay in something that sucks the soul right out of you? In my
thirties and forties, when I routinely changed jobs, houses, and mates, I was
ashamed of myself, told I was “flighty” and “couldn’t commit” and made to feel
like something was wrong with me because I move around a lot. I live in different places, wander, get
married/divorced, try another profession, move to the mountains, back to the
shore, camp out of my car, do exhausting work, live off the grid. But I love my freaking life, and how many
people can say that? By the time I turned fifty I just didn’t give a rat’s ass
what anyone thought of me. Let them
waste their time judging me while I backpack in Montana, raft the Salmon, hang
out in Panama, live in tiny places and owe nothing to anyone.
That mystical rascal, your human heart, is as big as the ocean and can hold everything, but unlike Black Friday crap at WalMart, supplies of love are unlimited.
As
for the love part of Freud’s happiness equation, Carol’s kind of like a guy who
doesn’t do “squishy” emotions; I don’t think there was much of that on the
farm. But as her friend for forty years, let me tell you the broad loves like a
rock. She is solid, and there,
unwavering, uncomplaining, and willing to do whatever it takes. You know, many Eastern philosophers, along
with Bob Marley, believe there is only One Love – not a whole bunch of
different kinds of love (platonic, sexual, brotherly, intimate, friendship,
parental… love etc.). Just One Love, big
and perfect, like my buddy Carol though she’s skinny as a rail and hilariously
imperfect. Love never leaves and neither
does Carol so what she dismisses as “bullshit” is the romance crap sold by
Hollywood and advertisers. But the One
Love? She’s got it and gives it, not hoarding it for her husband or her BFF but
just plain giving it out like candy. No
holds barred. And if an Iowa farm girl gets it – no fuss, no muss -you can too.
That mystical rascal, your human heart, is as big as the ocean and can hold
everything, but unlike Black Friday crap at WalMart, supplies of love are
unlimited.
Janis
Joplin, our gritty sister from the sixties, said “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” Carol would knock back a beer, and remind
you “it’s all bullshit, honey.” Work
is just a four- letter word; don’t let it kill ya. And love? Not that
complicated either – One Love. Two great broads, with some fabulous
advice.
