Occupational Hazard

Two questions: when’s the last time you heard someone say, “I love my job!”? What misfortune did you instantly wish upon that person? “I love my job!” Oh, really? And where were you on September 11th? Loving one’s job is downright un-American. Saddam Hussein probably loved his job before he was downsized to cave-dwelling.

That said: I have a pretty sweet job. And it’s making me slightly miserable.

Yesterday I gave a tour of Highlights to 14 writing workshop participants. Outside of Nissan, I can’t think of any corporation that willingly offers tours of its offices. And I bet most people take the Nissan tour because they want to ride in those funky golf carts. The tour groups that trickle into Highlights once or twice per month show enthusiasm on par with Dorothy entering Oz. I fully believe that many of these Honesdale tourists expect to be greeted by the Munchkin Mayor. “We represent the Timbertoes League!”

Inevitably, someone among the tour group---some grinning Virginian or New Jerseyite---will say, “It must be so much fun working here!” Often, this statement is accompanied by a conspiratorial wink. Like a good tour guide, I smile politely: “Oh, yes! It’s lots of fun!” I want to add, “Magazine editors hardly work at all! In fact, all of our proofreading and layout work is done by little elves who enter our offices overnight. We spend our mornings and afternoons frolicking with the local woodland creatures.”

I have yet to spy a gnome or nymph at Highlights. But privately, I’ll admit: many parts of my job are (sigh) fun. I spent all of Tuesday testing toys for the Highlights product catalog. It’s hard to complain about playing portable mini-golf and applying glitter glue to fairy wings. On Wednesday, I shared our riddle page with a focus group of third and fourth graders. What shoes do sea creatures wear? High eels.

Hardly any of my friends have fun jobs. (Wynne, I know you enjoy your job….but would you really call anti-tobacco research “fun”?) Last year, I could spend hours swapping on-the-job horror stories. As a relatively untrained 4th grade teacher, I owned the job-misery trump card. “Oh, I’m sorry you had to alphabetize file folders this afternoon,” I could say. “Today a 10 year old called me ‘chickenhead’ and threw up on my arm.”

Now, I’m forced to exaggerate the tediousness of my responsibilities. “Bored. Bored. Bored.” I e-mail my friend Hillary. “Writing an article about cultural sensitivity for Highlights telemarketers. Feel like gouging my eyes out.” Hillary replies, “How nice for you. I just spent two hours taking an inventory of office bathroom supplies. I smell like formaldehyde and urine.” Okay, I’ll quit whining.

Thank goodness I’ll be leaving Highlights in a few months. I expect to be thoroughly whipped by graduate school. My law-school pals rarely see the sunlight. I made the mistake of typing a long, cheery note to a second-year law friend during finals week. “Happy you’re doing so well!” she wrote. “I’ll write you a longer message when I’m not studying 12 hours a day.”

There won’t be any happy sprites conducting my psychology research at Tulane, that’s for sure. Finally, I’ll be readmitted to the cult of disgruntled productivity. Hip, hip, hi-ho!

In the meantime, if you need any alphabetizing done, please let me know.