I thought hard work was what they did for fun

I don’t know how to work hard.

I don’t work hard

I won’t work hard.

To hell with hard, I don’t like work.

I don’t like it, so why do it.

I’m trying to suss out the right words to open with.

My dad would have to get up with the phone in the middle of the night, dress, drive, pick up a body, spend hours of the night in the morgue, and then work a full day.

My inner monologue bitches when I try to wake to a happy toddler who wants to play.

My dad’s mom finished canning peaches. In August. In the 1940s. Without air conditioning. While in labor with my dad. Before she would go to the hospital. (and Dad was the 4th child)

I don’t get dinner on the table half the time. With one kid.

My grandfathers were farmers. When it was hot, cold, rainy. Cows and crops did not live by a clock.

I hibernate when it’s below freezing. I don’t want to walk to my car. In the garage.

My grandma survived breast cancer. And her house was always clean. And meals were always on the table.

My house looks like shit, and mah bewbs are just fine.

***

I understand how to survive. How to persevere. I grew up watching people doing hard work. Without complaint. It’s just what had to be done.

I’ll work for hours on something if it’s interesting. But once it’s tedious or goes on a little bit too long, I’m all done.

If it feels like routine, and not like work, I’ll do it. If it feels like work, I rebel.

And why?

Am I lazy? Stupid? Arrogant? Too good to get my hands dirty? I don’t know.

Am I out of practice? Have I ever practiced? Am I really one of the hordes of people who have it easy and think we’re entitled to it?

I don’t know.

And I’m writing this to work on sorting it out. I’ve been trying to sort it out since whatever point last spring I realized that my dad worked his ass off. That it didn’t come easy, that it wasn’t necessarily fun. I realized . . . I would do well to figure out how to get a little of that in my life.

It’s tied up in the election, and the changing of the guard, in some who talk of Obama voters “drinking the kool aid”, in talk of change . . .

I have more to work on here . . . but this is a start. Bear with me.