Push, Push, Push

The locker room at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center is shamefully small. It looks like it was built for a dozen men and/or boys. But every day more like a hundred to two hundred come through. As you might expect, when they're on their way out the two pools, they're wet. Sopping wet. And large puddles can form on the slippery floor.

As I was leaving today I spied a young man with an industrial sized squeegie device to corral all the water into the drains. It's a thankless job that must be repeated over and over ad nauseum. 

This brought to mind two things. 

First my checkered past and the more than 50 manual labor jobs I held working in the kitchens of restaurants, hospitals and college dining halls. In addition to my many cooking duties I was responsible for cleaning up. And pushing that damn mop and the bucket on wheels filled with dirty water.

So glamorous. And equally thankless.

The second thing I remembered was a recent conversation between my two daughters. Both are gainfully employed in the ad business as Producers. It should be noted they got these jobs with little or no nepotistic help from me. Not that I had any clout in the biz. 

If anything, dropping my name could've been a detriment.

Like many "kids" in their 20's they have their up and down days at work, what with all the mishegas and tzuris. On one of their simultaneous down days, they remarked how great it would be to leave work at 5, come home, and not have any contact, thoughts or responsibilities until the sun was well up in the sky the next day.

"What would you do," I inquired.

"Anything," they said, "just something I could do with my hands. With no stress. Something menial."

I quickly pointed out that menial jobs come with less-than-menial pay. 

"Oh no, that wouldn't work," they concurred, remembering they live in LA and NYC, not Des Moines, Iowa.

Looking back on my less-than-storied career, I remember chewing on the same fat. Thinking I'd love to tell the CEO and the Client to bend over, contort themselves and insert their heads into an orifice of their liking. Then I remembered all the years of sweaty, smelly labor I put in and thanked my lucky stars I was able to make a living with nothing but my oft-sodden wits. 

"From the luft," my father would say.

As one of my best friends is about discover, there's something even better than working with your hands or working with your brains...that's not working at all. 

Happy retirement, he who shall not be named.