Emerging from the wreckage

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I’ve said this before; in fact, I say it damn near every year: as someone who has been a union member and a union representative for damn near my entire adult life, I consider Labor Day my holiday in a way that is very unique to it.  I try to never forget that motherfuckers literally died so that the concept of the “weekend” could exist, much less a day where damn near everyone is expected to stay home and eat various grilled meats and swill alcoholic beverages.

Labor Day for the last couple of years has had a bit of a sting to it, because I’ve had to work and I do not like working on Labor Day.  I won’t complain about the money; the sales I made yesterday are going to earn me around $600 or so in commissions when they pay out, and making $600 in a single day of work is nothing to sneeze at.  This entire weekend was insanely busy, and today was nuts as well, and tomorrow I have another full day, because our present for Labor Day this year was that everyone on the staff gets to work another six hours longer than usual, and remember this is a job that is already 45+ hours every single week.

There are those who have it much worse, of course.  I’m aware of that.  But this, I think, will be the last time that I allow this to happen to me.  I’ve given enough hours of my life, enough weekends, to this job.  And this is about to be the second night in a row where I’ve gotten home from work at can’t-see at night and been in bed within half an hour.

Enough.  Time to find something else.