I am in hot, humid, sweaty-in-all-the-wrong-places Central America, and I am invited to a Christmas party.  Eager to experience the holiday through a shiny new cultural lens, my mistletoe and I happily accept.   In the name of cross-cultural exchange, I carry an innocent little twig of mistletoe, in hopes it will aid my mission to gather a more intimate knowledge of the culture, if you know what I mean.  Wink-wink-elbow jab.

The taxi drops me off at the address.   It’s dark.   It’s muddy.  I’m wearing red heels.  I can envision it now:

Perfect little tan bodied, long-haired, hoop earring donning Latina female number one: Who brought the idiot who can’t even walk like a proper woman in tacones?

Perfect little tan bodied, long-haired, hoop earring donning Latina female number two: Pshhh, who cares.  She’s a gringa–what do you expect?

As I not-so-gracefully tip-toe my way around the emerging pieces of rock that play a cruel game of peek-a-boo with me and the dry, hard earth, threatening to make a fool out of me with just one wrong step, I reprimand myself for not just surrendering to flats and settling for stumpy.  But what latin lover is going to want to whisk the stumpy, sweaty girl off her feet?  None.  Especially a stumpy, sweaty girl that, for reasons unknown, is dangling a strange, berry-laden plant above her head.

My schizophrenic thought-process is immediately put on hold in response to a disturbingly sudden, high-pitched shrill that echoes throughout the air.

As I approach the house, I hear it again, but this time much louder.  And again.  And once again.

As I make my grand entrance into the door of the tin-roofed home–a bit nervous, knowing I will be a stranger in the room–I am greeted not with the warm welcome I was optimistically envisioning, but rather, by an unexpected, alarming scene of sorts that instantaneously sends a wave of nausea rushing through me.

The image is just as horrifying as the sound:  A massive pig, larger than most of the humans that surround it, is being violently chased in circles around the backyard.  There are five males, each armed with what appears to be an oversized mallet, scrambling around the yard, determined to deliver a mighty blow to the panic-stricken pig atop its head to render it unconscious, at which point its throat will be pierced with the large machete that dutifully hangs from the wall.

I quickly ascertain that heels were most definitely an inappropriate selection of footwear for this party.

Well, That’s Awkward

I am horrified.  I have no idea what to say, do or even feel, and can’t bear to watch as they silence the pig’s last desperate squeal, and collectively heave it onto a large wooden chopping block to saw off its head.

As the rest of the attendees take delight in gathering around the cauldron-like wok they have suspended over a fire with the help of three heavy-duty chains, patiently awaiting sliced pieces of pig fat to be fried and served, I, on the other hand, sit on an opposite side of the yard, quietly sipping my lager and contemplating, philosophizing, mourning.

Witnessing this event was a great mental exercise for me, and one that boldly challenged my perception of reality, ostentatiously mocking it with its unabashed display of complete and utter opposition to my ingrained cultural norms, which was, by extension, opposition to everything I had previously known to be true.

I fling the mistletoe to the ground.  There will be no stolen kisses tonight.

Words such as PETA, animal cruelty, and inhumane come to mind, as I question the ethics–or, perhaps, lack of ethics–of the human race.  But then, I’m suddenly also forced to question myself.  My automatic reaction is to be appalled, and to proclaim such an act as loathsome, detestable and just plain cold-blooded.

But then, I think, is it actually?

I remind myself that we, too, kill thousands and thousands of pigs each year for consumption, and, according to some recent documentaries, we aren’t as “humane” in our practices as we might like to think.

That said, I question why it doesn’t bother me if I don’t have to witness it with my own eyes.

Worth Contemplating, But Not My Point

I don’t intend for this to be a statement of my position on the integrity of eating meat, because, frankly, I don’t have one.  I am from Scranton, Pennsylvania.  There’s no question that I like meat.  Right now, it’s not about that; it’s about the far broader message that can be extrapolated here.

No matter how you dice it, the simple fact is that it’s unfair for me to judge, because I’m judging based on a different set of rules.   A set of rules that we’ve internalized and perpetuated among ourselves as truth, when, in reality, it’s not truth–it’s purely our perception of truth. Relative to this example, it’s our perception of how we view right and wrong.  And this, to me, was wrong.  But I’ll tell you what–to the people at the party, there was nothing wrong about it.   Their truth is that the merits of to-kill-a-pig-or-not-to-kill-a-pig just isn’t a debate that exists.  On the other hand, what does exist is the need to eat, and, frankly, it’s a luxury to have meat at all.  No one is disturbed.  No one is shuddering.   Instead, they are rejoicing.  They are grateful to be fortunate enough to even have the opportunity to kill a pig.

There are some obvious implications that should come as no surprise, namely that, as I’ve stated before, reality is subjective.  But it goes beyond that, and makes another, perhaps less salient point:

Subjectivity implies choice.

You have two choices:  Allow society at large to define your perspectives on your behalf, or define your perspectives for yourself.

What do you really think?  What do you really believe?  … Do you even know?

There is no inherent benefit in accepting the perspectives that society arbitrarily determines for us–whether it’s right versus wrong or any other myriad of possibilities.  There is a perceived benefit, though, and it goes by the name of fitting in.  But, in my view, that’s far from beneficial; quite the opposite, actually.  On the other hand, when you’re capable enough to cut through the noise and learn how to think independently of the group, that’s where the real benefits lie.

Am I saying that I’ve shed my deeply ingrained culturally-based thought patterns overnight, and am a newly converted, red heel wearing pig butcher, in the name of independent thought?  No, certainly not.

But am I open to the possibility that this isn’t as loathsome, detestable and cold-blooded as I was originally inclined to think?

Yes.

If there are currently 7 billion people (that’s 7,000,000,000, in case you need all of those fancy zeros to conceptualize just how many people that truly is) on this planet, and all of us have different perceptions of what’s right or what’s wrong, or whether or not red heels do anything at all to detract from stumpy sweatiness, then it would be preposterously arrogant of me to assert my own perception of right or wrong as truth.  Extended beyond pig killings, if we can learn to apply a similar thought process to other traditionally rigid ideas, such as religion, marriage or even what constitutes success, who knows?  We might just do alright for ourselves, after all.  Not to mention a possible diminishing of supremacism, americentrism, racism, and a host of other ugly -isms and the unflattering baggage that comes with it.

It all starts with the pig, I say.

And with that, I take all of my assumptions, and throw them haphazardly to the wind.

I am left with only two questions:

1)  Where can I find some more mistletoe?
2)  Who’s your daddy now, life?

You don’t have time for anything.

You’ve got five tabs open on your browser, glaring, bold-faced emails that require responses, glaring, bold-faced bosses that require answers, and a family that, later, will require your last tattered, surviving joule of energy, before you hurriedly run an Oral B across your choppers, pray that there’s a clean pair of sweats (please let there be sweats!), and bellyflop face-first onto your bed, whose sheets really could use a good washing.   If only you had the time.

As you lay there, your mind sprints a 100 yard-dash through a mental purgatory of phone calls to return, errands to run, cards to remember to send, functions to attend, appointments to keep–did I get my car inspected on time?!–basketball games to cheer on, gym time to log, whether or not you can still pull off spandex, and why on earth anyone would buy a pair of those plastic neon sunglasses with the lines through them.

You turn, toss and kick the tangled covers off of your feet in a child-like fit of frustration.  You don’t have time for anything.

In fact, you barely have time to read this.  (And I barely had time to write it.)

Back in the office, you won’t have time for a lunch break.  (And your boss won’t have time to read the report you’ll spend your lunch break typing.)

You won’t have time to cook a healthy meal for dinner.  (And your doctor won’t have time to answer your questions regarding your impending hypertension.)

You won’t have time to be intimate with your significant other.  (And your significant other won’t have time to end it with you face-to-face before leaving.)

You won’t have time to take a vacation this year.  (And when making layoffs, corporate won’t have time to notice.)

You won’t have time to go the speed limit.  (And the paramedics won’t have time to revive you.)

You won’t have time to live your life.  (And your life won’t have time to create many memories worth remembering.)

And thereafter, your friends won’t have time to mourn, before they’ll hastily rush back to work in fear of “falling behind,” as they, too, skip their lunch breaks and forfeit their vacation in the name of getting ahead.

At what point did productivity become worth dying for?

At what point did we stop feeling, and just start doing?

At what point did our lives turn into a never-ending assembly line, where the work is never done and we are never done?

And at what point did we become okay with it?

Using The Neverending To-Do List To Your Advantage

Granted, in line with basic human needs, there will always be something else to do in the name of survival.  Kill-woolly-mammoth-for-food, for example, or generate-income-to-purchase-food, for a more relevant example. Add on an assortment of self-inflicted obligations on top of societal ones, and juxtapose them with present-day standards of living, and you’ve got yourself one heck of a to-do list–one that, no matter how hard you try, will never, ever be complete.  Until you’re dead, that is.

As daunting as that seems, the fact that life’s to-do list will never be complete is, contrary to instinct, to your advantage. So is the fact that you’re not dead, in case you haven’t had time to notice.

The advantage is this:  Since there’s always going to be something else to do, forever and ever and ever and ever and ever, so help me Jehovah, Jabbodah, Jeremiah or Jay-Z, it logically follows that it would be impossible to get everything done.

And if it’s impossible to get everything done, then why are we in such a hurry to achieve an impossible goal? (Overachievers.  Sheesh.)

The Point

SLOW THE (INSERT EXPLETIVE) DOWN!

AND JUST BECAUSE I REALLY LIKE CAPS AND THIS SEEMS LIKE A LESSON WE COULD ALL BENEFIT FROM IF WE MANAGE TO GET IT THROUGH OUR CUTE LITTLE OVERACTIVE CEREBRUMS, I’M GOING TO FURTHER THAT STATEMENT IN ALL CAPS WITH THIS:

STOP RUSHING TO YOUR DEATH.

In my view, we could all really benefit if we could learn to reprogram our internal Tom-Toms from “fastest route” to “scenic route,” because otherwise, we will arrive much sooner than we ever imagined, without having seen any of the pretty lakes, rivers, valleys, fields, forests, deer, wild boar, or David The Gnome.  And wouldn’t you jump at the chance to see David The Gnome, even just to give him a high five for that sweet red hat?

That sounds like I’m promoting drug usage.  I’m not.  I don’t…I just…I just….ah, forget it.

This Is Not New Information

When it comes down to it, it doesn’t matter how many ridiculous metaphors I use, you already know that you have to slow down.  We all know that.  You’ve probably had mini heart-to-hearts with yourself over the years, telling yourself the very same thing.  You’ve made promises to read more books for leisure, spend more time playing Mario Kart with the kids, take long, drawn-out baths and maybe even try yoga.

So why haven’t you?

You fantasize about putting the world on pause, hanging a giant “Do Not Disturb” sign right on that which is your life, and curling up with a Harlequin romance.  (Don’t deny.)

But you can’t, right?

Because there’s no remote control for the world–not even a mute button–and if you hesitate for even a moment, someone will come along who’s better, faster, more capable than you, and before you know it, you’ll be left in the dust.

That’s the fear, isn’t it?

Guess what:  It’s time to wind up big and give that fear a fresh one, because the only thing that’ll be left in the dust is your guilty conscience.  Bring on the Harlequins, I say.

While it’s true that we will always have something to do, and it may feel like we’re working on a 24/7 assembly line with no end in sight, that doesn’t mean we can’t kick the conveyor belt down a notch and take our good, sweet time.  Periodic dance parties purely optional.  Henry Ford is not behind you with a whip.  The only one rushing you…is you.

A Little Experiment

Try this:

Tomorrow, walk really slowly.

It’s that simple.  Walking slowly on purpose always helps me feel more calm, in general, and forces me to slow everything else down.  Give your brain the uncommon treat of being able to simply trot along peacefully, without having to race.  Take the time to smell the air, and not just smell it, but really inhale it.  Notice things.  Notice yourself.  Notice how you feel.   Notice who you are.

Revel in the peace of mind & unexpected relief that comes with not having to be the fastest, if only for today.  Let people think you drive like grandma and yell obscenities out the window.  Who cares?  Just crank the tunes.

Note: Might be useful to have a video camera on hand.  Recording other people getting angry because you’re not rushing through your life like they are might prove to be disturbingly delightful.

Stop being impatient.  Anxious.  Intolerant.  Demanding.  Short.  Tense.  High-strung.  Temperamental.

Take a deep breath, and slow it down, Gonzalez!   Make a conscious effort, if for no other reason than it feels good.   Despite appearances, you are completely in control of your time and how you operate.   Don’t forget it.   Getting the world’s most productive person award is not worth sacrificing the quality of your experience here on earth.   Actually, it’s not even worth trading your black jellybeans for, since it doesn’t even exist.

Chill out.  And in the meantime, you should definitely have a lasso on hand–after all, who needs a muse if you’ve captured a gnome?

They say that the grass is always greener on the other side. Normally, I’d refute this, proclaim it an illusion, and instead promote some other tired, overused, pink, frilly powder puff version of  ”seize the day,” “be grateful for what you have,” or, my personal favorite, “stop being a greedy, selfish, money-grubbing bitch.”

Normally, that is.

Today, however, I find myself on the verge of reluctant agreement with my green, grassy, psychological nemesis, wondering if, perhaps, the grass will always be greener on the other side–on the playing field that is our minds.

There seems to never arrive the point in which we actually take a deep breath and say, “Ah, there.  NOW I’m entirely happy with everything in my life, including that weird mole that appeared on my arm, and–you know what?–I don’t want any other grass on any other side.  Mine is just perfect the way it is.”

Or, is it the case that, in the quest for self-development, the grass will never be as green as we want it to be?   Better phrased:  Will we forever be engaged in an (elusive?) battle to be…more? Better?  Greener?  More luscious?

Now for the twist:  Are we even seeking to be more, or could it be the case that we’re helplessly engaged in a fool’s battle with the never-ending challenge that being more presents?  Relative to lifestyle design, are we truly involved in it for the potential end reward, or is it possible that we’re involved because it provides yet another challenge to manhandle?

… Am we nothing more than mere adrenaline junkies?

Then again, there are moments, too, when lifestyle design is appealing for exactly what it promises:  The ownership of your own time.  (Ironic that we must repossess ownership over something that is inherently ours in the first place, but that’s another story.)   Regrettably, horizontal stripes & handcuffs aren’t all that becoming on me. Neither is the black cloak of guilt that comes as a free bonus, as a special thank you for shopping with the Western world.

My mind then ricochets to a new thought, one that is mildly disturbing, yet reverberating with potential truth:  Could it be that, ironically enough, it’s us who are the ones taking life much too seriously?  Could it be that we are so hypersensitive of life’s delicate, volatile ways, that we’re desperately trying to cling to whatever fleeting moments we’ve been granted, like a fledging attempt at capturing a minnow by repeatedly cupping our hands in the water?  Do we take life too seriously in the sense that we’re obsessed with getting it right, and making every moment count?  Are we over doing it? Is it even possible to over do life?

Perhaps we are the ultimate perfectionists, radically aiming for perfection in life, by constantly trying to ensure perpetual happiness.  Constantly trying to ensure the best of the best, as we define it, anyway, never accepting mediocrity in its place.  This, too, makes us furrow our brow because it flies in the face of our otherwise free-spirited demeanor–but in a strange way that opposes our unrestrained, fancy-free ways by simultaneously defending them.  We are perfectionists about being carefree.

We’ve got this overwhelming desire to make this one, precious life so absolutely perfect – so absolutely wonderful, so absolutely right – so that it truly represents and, more importantly, feels like the life that we would like to live, that it seems as if our endeavors in lifestyle design could be a heavy nod to just that:  Large-scale perfectionism.

Is it perfectionism?

Is it the product of a time-based society, in which we are acutely, painfully aware of every passing minute?

Is it some character flaw of our own?

Or could it simply be a function of human nature?

At sometime, somewhere, somehow you’ve royally  *#%&@! up.  And at sometime, somewhere, somehow, you will royally  *#%&@! up again.  Fact. Hell, maybe just today alone you have a few doozies under your belt (especially if you’re a Pepsi drinker–that counts, you know).  Soft drinks aside, it doesn’t matter how closely you follow the rules, how many articles you’ve read online, how many fancy degrees you have, how many abbreviations follow your name, how many pats on the back you’ve received, how long your resume is, how well-traveled you are, how much money you’ve made, how many stalkers you have, which “important people” think you’re important too, or whether you’ve finally discovered the best possible way to eat a Reese’s peanut butter cup (damn you, I wanted it to be me):  The inevitable truth is that you are going to mess up. Again.  And again.  (And again.)  Because we’re members of that silly race called human beings.  And none of us know everything.  (Although if you happen to have an unusually large cranium equipped with fortune-telling capabilities and you do know everything, call me so we can reproduce ASAP.)

If I were going to pose as a psychologist, which I’m not, then I might be inclined to tell you–hopefully whilst laying sideways on a brown leather couch with my head propped up by one arm, smoking a pipe and exhaling smoke rings like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland–that making mistakes is a vital part of self-growth.  But since I’m not a psychologist, nor am I posing as one, I’m going to say this:

Mistakes suck.   I don’t like making them, and I’d like to avoid them at all costs.  Therefore, I will do everything in my power not to make them.  However, when I do, I’ll probably get pissed off.  I might piss some other people off.  But, well…okay, fine.  Because I don’t know everything.  Even though I pretend I do.  But in the meantime, if I can avoid majorly *#%&-ing up, I’m damn well going to, followed up with an emphatic, “Boo-yah.”

Now imagine: For those of us who are following a more traditional life path, many mistakes are made despite having a well-laid out, tried and true life plan.  On the other hand, those of us who have elected to pursue more non-traditional paths–be it a form of lifestyle design or other alternatives–we are, by default, prone to making far more mistakes as a product of that path’s nontraditional nature.  Nothing is tried and true.  It’s in our hands to try it and make it true.  So mistakes become much more prevalent as we forge ahead and attempt to make sense of everything.

You can imagine i’ve been pissed off a lot lately.  Someone send wine.  Lots of it.  And Lucky Charms.  Because digging the marshmallows out is therapeutic.  And while we’re at it, certificates for massages never hurt, either.

In my quest for life awesomeness, there is, however, one mistake that I’ve made in the past, and one that I think warrants a mention.  No, it has nothing to do with the yellow and black polka dot lingerie I, at one point, thought was a good idea, nor any boyfriends I’ve had named Sergio, Pepe or Rex.

Rather, it has to do with a very vital distinction that must be made continually along your own quest for life awesomeness, and that’s the subtle difference I’d like to identify as desires versus dreams.

There are many things we all desire in life.   Desires are things that would be nice.  Putting up a jewelry shop on some cliff-like coast of Greece would be nice.  Having a live-in housekeeper would be nice.  Gorging on pizza every single day would be nice.   Having my pants fit after gorging on pizza every single day would be nice.  Doing anthropological research of indigenous tribes around the world would be nice.  Owning a spa would be nice.  Becoming a fashion designer would be nice.  Having a brand new, white Audi would be nice.  Teaching primates sign language would be nice.  Hell, all of these things would be nice, if not fantastic.  And that’s what makes them desires.  Especially the part about the pizza.  With hot sauce.   Franks, to be exact.

But despite how nice, fantastic, awesome, or mouth-watering all of these things are to me, I must be careful not to make the mistake of letting whimsical desires get in the way of my true dreams.  Because those desires are sneaky little suckers, and they have the power to derail your thought processes, even if only momentarily.  But that power is something to keep an eye on, because you don’t want to be derailed by things that would be nice. You want what will be downright freaking awesome. You want to stay focused on your dream–that is, the one unwavering desire that lies deep within you.

Don’t try to have it all–you simply can’t.  Time doesn’t allow for it.  But absolutely try for what it is you sincerely want to do. Having a jewelry shop on a cliff-like coast of Greece would certainly be brag-worthy, and give me plenty of excuses to wear nothing but white and eat chicken kabobs all day long, but is it what I truly want?  No. What I want is a mobile lifestyle in which I am enabled to wear white and eat chicken kabobs while exploring all sorts of different countries.  (Evil laugh.)  And I’ve got to do what it takes to achieve that goal–not some whimsical desire that suddenly strikes.

I’m not a sportsy kinda gal, but let’s indulge in a baseball reference for fun, because the point is salient:  Keep your eye on the ball.

Constantly reassess what you’re spending your time on every day, and make sure that the largest percentage that you can manage is dedicated to what you really want–what you dream about–because if you don’t, that dream will just stay a dream, and never turn into a reality. And then you’ll feel like a big, giant loser–point blank.   You have all of the power to make it happen; you simply have to do just that…..make it happen.

Stop contemplating random desires.  Start concentrating on what it is you really want.  If you haven’t figured that out yet, now is the time.   It doesn’t have to be one thing, but your goals must be clear, and above all, they must make your heart race.  Whatever it is, you must be exhilarated by it.  You must truly want it.   If you’re not sure what you truly want, then start experimenting.   Dig in.  Jump in head first.  Get involved with your own interests. And do the weeding thereafter.   Then once you’ve identified something that, the idea of not having makes you weep, then run full speed after it.  No one else is going to go get it for you. It’s all on you, champ.

Boo-yah!

Today, there are no flowery introductions, no background information to give and no anecdotes to tell (I’ll even spare you the details of the cute guy I met while white water rafting here the other day in Costa Rica)–today, it’s straight to the point:

You don’t have a career.  What you’ve got is a glorified version of a job.

The term “career” is nothing more than a fancy linguistic trick designed to make you believe that what you’re doing is more meaningful than just some job, but in essence, they are the same:   Whether you develop cutting edge proposals for high-value clients (ohhh, ahhh!) or you spend your days removing dirty plates from tables, you are, in both cases, performing a task in exchange for money.

But career just sounds so much better, doesn’t it?  It implies that you’ve selected this path and therefore are engaged, dedicated and glad to be doing what you’re doing.  More importantly, using the term “career” communicates your social status to others; it indirectly says, “I have the luxury of choosing the way I’m going to spend 8-10 hours each day.  I even get a whole hour for lunch….suckaaas!”

Surely, the term career can mean that you’ve spent time training for Job Title X, and hence you are highly skilled.  An expert.   A specialist.  A professional.   But it becomes less attractive when, in spending so much time training for our “career”–otherwise known as a job we do because we like it (or thought we would) more than others–we use it to form our identities of who we are as people.

Ask someone about themselves, and they’ll default to a job-title description first, usually followed by where they’re from and what they’re doing, but not a lot on who they actually ARE. “You are what you do” is a bunch of crap–I do not believe that we are a product of the tasks we perform, but rather in the experiences we’ve had. Therefore, perhaps instead of “you are what you do,” maybe it should read “you are what you’ve learned.”

But wait, isn’t the advice du jour “Do What You Love?”

By attaching our identities to the jobs we perform, in an effort to seek meaning for ourselves, we erroneously seek meaning in our jobs. At first glance, this seems like a noble & worthwhile goal; however, it’s reached a point in which it now backfires on us.  Now, the only way we know how to find meaning is through the job functions we perform. We define ourselves by it, use it as a source of pride, sacrifice for it and devote our lives to it; as such, we become one in the same.

The problem with that is that is its potential to make us painstakingly narrow human beings. There are so many things that you are, and so many worthwhile things to explore and derive meaning from than some arbitrary task you perform.  A favorite quote of mine by United States author, Henry Miller:

“Develop interest in life as you see it; in people, things, literature, music – the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people.”

What inspired this post has been the last month I’ve been here in Central America.  Where I’m based out of, on the Central Pacific coast of Costa Rica, there is no such thing as a career.  People work typically from 6am to 2pm, or from 2pm to 10pm in hotels, restaurants and any other number of tourist industries, and none of the jobs are particularly glamourous.  However, they’re more than grateful to have one at all, and you never hear anyone complaining about having to go to work.

That said, they also don’t associate their self-worth with what they do for money, and tend to be less bitter because of it; to them, a job is simply what you do to survive, and there’s no other meaning in it than that. Instead, they find meaning outside of their work, in places like their families, friendships and social connections. Meet a person here and ask them about themselves, and they will never respond first with, “Oh, I’m a receptionist at X hotel,” but rather “I’m so and so’s cousin, I live over in X neighborhood.  As a matter of fact, we’re having a birthday party for my grandmother tonight–want to come?” As an interesting side note, if I meet someone and ask what they do in Spanish, “Que haces?” they will tell me what they’ve got on their agenda for the day, NOT what they do for a living.  In order to find out where they work, I’ve got literally got to ask what they do for work, “En que trabajas?”  However, if I ask the same question, “What do you do?” in English, you know that I am asking about what you do for a living.  Yet another cruel linguistic trick that is highly reflective of our values.

I’ve observed a drastic shift in priorities, from those of the United States, and, frankly, despite the fact that many of the local workers here earn no more than $2/hour, I find myself envying them.  They are free from judgments about who they are based on what they do for a living, and as such, are free from the pressure that we knowingly or unknowingly put on ourselves.  They happily put in their 8 hours, and thereafter work is over–they are free to spend the remainder of their day engaging in activities they love with the people they love.  No one brings their work home with them; no one is missing out on their daughter’s childhood in a vain attempt to work overtime; no one is stressed, hurried and frantically rushing through life. They are happy to just be, and are fully aware of how to embrace pleasure, and use that to find meaning.

The conclusion?

I’d rather have a job over a career any day…suckaaas.

P.S.  If you didn’t get a chance to see my latest guest post over at Josh Hanagarne’s site, The World’s Strongest Librarian, check it out–it’s completely off the wall and on a topic that I don’t usually discuss here:  Sex!