An Alacrity borne of Necessity
Or, “The Best Shitty Job I Have Ever Had”
Thanks to Herself’s heroic efforts in the area of gainful employment and the mercifully lower rent of our awesome new apartment, I have been able to select summer employment based on the following rigorous criteria:
- What I want to do
- How much I want to do it
disregarding insignificant factors like
- How much it pays
… I considered a wide variety of employment options, ranging from “working at a bike store” to “working as a bike messenger1.” The latter eventually won. As of about two weeks ago, I am an honest-to-god bicycle courier.
And I love it.
When reading about clinical depression, there’s a pretty standard litany of treatments that get rattled off: counseling, excercise, medication, et cetera. I never really paid attention to the “exercise” portion of that list, back in the Bad Old Days, but I am coming to realize that I should have. Because, even given the standard relief that accompanies the onset of summer vacation, I feel great—like I could take on the whole empire myself.
Not that I am, or have recently been, clinically depressed. Even so, I am very pleased.
Which is not to say that I am not tired. The first to get sore were my forearms, from gripping the handlebars for hours, followed by my chest and stomach, from resisting the constant pedaling motion. Finally my legs succumbed, making the transition from “tired” to “irritable” to “hostile” over the course of a week or so. I expect that it will pass, but at the moment, I cannot stand without an acute reminder of what I’ve been doing all day. I am developing an amazing farmer’s tan. The hair on my arms is starting to bleach blonde. (The same will not happen to my hair; I wear a helmet.)
Water is my new favorite drink. I require four meals a day. I sleep like the dead.
I have developed a new appreciation for showers. I finally overcame my trepidation and made the transition to the all-cold shower, and I now liken it to the climax at the end of 8 hours of hot asphalt lovemaking. The thought of its cool relief is sometimes all that fuels my mid-traffic sprints at the end of the workday, and it has yet to disappoint. It feels so deliciously good. You all really must try it.
Additionally, I am out-hipped at every turn. My coworkers include a radio DJ and a part-time bike racer, and all of them are people of deeply intimidating coolness. Perhaps I am overawed, but that is to be expected, as they are themselves rather awesome. It makes sense, you see.
1I also briefly considered finding work at one of those shopping-mall shooting ranges in Waikiki that cater exclusively to Japanese tourists looking to shoot a real live gun. You have to admit that watching a waifish 120-pound Japanese boy attempt to fire a .357 Magnum would probably never get old.