The Fruits of Labor
I had a really good hair stylist once who left the business in his prime when he developed allergies to the products used in salons. His hands looked like the Russian mafia had used acid to get him to talk.
Another acquaintance was doing well in drywall, but the abrasive, gritty stuff he worked with each day eventually made him sick in addition to making his skin dry to the point of cracking and bleeding.
My dad was a farmer who loved his land, his machinery, and his work, but like many who spend their days outside, he paid with multiple skin cancers in the last two decades of his life.
Our work fulfills us and kills us. As a teacher, I suffered foot pain from standing all day on concrete floors and neck pain from having twenty decisions to make every thirty seconds. As a writer, I pay for those glorious days of inspiration with pain in my lower back and an irritable ulnar nerve in my "mouse arm."
If we didn't love our work so much, we might have less tension, fewer RSIs, and residual damage. But where's the fun in that?
Another acquaintance was doing well in drywall, but the abrasive, gritty stuff he worked with each day eventually made him sick in addition to making his skin dry to the point of cracking and bleeding.
My dad was a farmer who loved his land, his machinery, and his work, but like many who spend their days outside, he paid with multiple skin cancers in the last two decades of his life.
Our work fulfills us and kills us. As a teacher, I suffered foot pain from standing all day on concrete floors and neck pain from having twenty decisions to make every thirty seconds. As a writer, I pay for those glorious days of inspiration with pain in my lower back and an irritable ulnar nerve in my "mouse arm."
If we didn't love our work so much, we might have less tension, fewer RSIs, and residual damage. But where's the fun in that?
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