I Call BullSh#@!

What do you do when you have a career crisis?

When you start to question what you've chosen to do with your life? Let's be honest. We spend most of our time at our jobs. It should be something that fulfills us, right?

Well, I call bullshit.

In theory, it sounds great. In reality, we just want something that is going to pay our bills, buy us new clothes and provide us with a decent vacation every year. If you have a job that does all of the above, most are content. If not content, then at least accepting.

Want me to do the work of three people? Sure, I'll do it. I might bitch and complain under my breath, but it'll get done.

You want me to bill 75 dollars for a twenty minute conversation? Why not?

Do these things make me happy? Hell no. Will I continue to do them to assure myself that I'm going to be able to take an exotic trip when my vacation time kicks back in? Damn straight.

If I was independently wealthy, I might do something better with my time. I surely wouldn't sit in this little office of mine that lacks even a window with a space heater under the desk so that my toes don't get frostbitten with cold. (I mean, really, people! I live in Florida. I was born here, spent my whole life here. If it dips below seventy degrees, I'm chilled. There is no need to have the air conditioner on sixty five day in and day out....)

A few of the people I work with:

The attorney to my left constantly forgets that he doesn't have the entire floor to himself, so I get to listen to his voice mail messages over the speaker phone, along with many of his conference calls. He also enjoys singing.

There is also someone near me that is constantly clearing the phlegm from their throat. She's a prize (and she sings, too! Go figure.)

Then, there are a few that break their necks looking into my office EVERY time they walk past.

Another one that screams G-D it whenever his assistant screws up. It leaves her a crying, shaking mess that I believe would make her jump out of her skin if you so much as said "Boo".

Or the former president to the local country club that can't be bothered to remember anyone's name unless you're a partner.

Or the perve that's always hitting on you every time you get into the elevator.

Or maybe the dorky one that brings his instrument to the office every other week because I guess he plays in concerts around town. He also has ZERO communication skills and I have a hard time believing it's snobbery.

Or the one that has exotic dead animals hung all over his office.

Or the former goth/emo dude that now has a degree hanging on his wall.

Then there is the one that looks at dirty emails all day.

Or the one that has three different girlfriends/hook ups with a wife at home.

I sometimes think about the "disgruntled worker" and hope and pray that one doesn't come back to haunt this place before I decide that tropical locales once a year aren't really worth it.

But even when I decide that, it must be said that I truly, truly love me some cute shoes, even if I don't enjoy shopping for them myself.

Maybe I should just say to hell with it and accept the modeling contract offered to me.