Work Is a Means to Something Else, Not Something to Live For

Remember in our early working experiences when having a job meant responsibilities and the means which we paid for our toys? I do too. As most of you who knew me twenty years ago could recall, I spent roughly four nights per week hanging out of the Taco Bell drive-thru window swapping cash or check for a bag of hot tacos, burritos, nachos, and of course, Choco Tacos. While I was working each night, I had a constant reminder that the Bell would not be where the train stops by simply looking and interacting with my older coworkers. They were generally good people who somehow lost the joy in their lives, and for this particular season they were relegated to standing next to a bunch of pimply faced teenagers who only wanted some new shoes or a t-shirt or needed a way to make our monthly car insurance payments. As they worried about getting their hours cut, I saw firsthand that a hand-to-mouth existence was not worth it.

Fast forward to today and I now understand their frets as they had to provide for their families on minimum wage. I am also fortunate to get this life lesson early despite not applying said instructions until fairly recently.

What do I mean?

Graduating high school meant going to college.

Graduating from college meant getting that first grown-up job AND the swift kick in the behind to leave childhood behind once and for all.

Earning those first few paychecks meant so much since that was the most money we had ever made to date, and that typically included an increase in living standards [ex. a new car, an apartment, or both] to coincide with our evolving stations. For some of us, that also included a significant other – or in my case, partying on a higher level. I wasn’t smoking or snorting, but Heaven’s Hill gave way to Smirnoff and instead of guzzling E & J, I matured to Blackjacks (Jack Daniels w/vanilla Coke on ice). I still had to be competent at work and dress like the professional I aspired to become meaning my wardrobe became an equal mix of chambray shirts and khaki Dockers, and Polo shirts with cleanly pressed jeans. Unfortunately, that climb up the ladder stopped one Monday morning when I was asked to clean my desk and turn in my badges due to budget cuts. At twenty-four, I didn’t think anything of it; after all, this is the first break I’ve had in my life from being enslaved to an alarm clock and sadistic bosses. I’ll bounce back soon and look at this situation as a mere bump in the road. Besides, I could really use a break to chill out and find myself.

Wrong. I was unemployed for four months.

No one would bite on the resumes I sent out daily as I had lost my job just before the Christmas holiday season, and if there was a taker, I only made eight bucks per hour in that day-only temporary role.  

What happened to my friends? F**k ‘em, those users all scattered like cockroaches in the light.

I had always thought that because I was so book smart (and educated) with a ridiculous work ethic, I would always easily find good-paying work yet those four months proved otherwise. Words like “overqualified” and “inexperienced” outweighed my need to take care of myself, and as the job search dragged, I started drinking heavily. My car was breaking down seemingly each week and as my savings dwindled, I found myself turning to my parents for the first time in several years for help.

I was lost and didn’t even know it.

If that isn’t humble pie, then I don’t know what is.

Sleeping on the same twin-size bunk bed I had as a seven-year-old child really put a damper on my emerging adulthood but I kept drinking. Somehow, I didn’t have money to pay my cell phone bill but I always had a 30-pack of Budweiser. I was rocking new sweaters and jeans from Old Navy – and hiding out in the public library reading entire novels and magazines instead of facing the world head-on.

In the midst of another pity party and a brief period of sobriety, I went to the gym one morning for a run and ran into one of my childhood friends. She was finishing up nursing school and as we caught up from years lost, she made the comment that money isn’t everything but it is a means to the next thing. I had gotten so caught up in my former title at work (scheduler) and the dollars that came with it that I had lost myself!

Work is a means to something else. You work to live, not live to work.

Several years passed until I heard the saying again. Although I drink occasionally today, I crawled my way back to Jesus, largely sobered up and earned my teaching certificate; however, I was working upwards of eighty-five hours per week with one day to sleep and the other to grade homework after church.

I’m still a workaholic. I may always be one, but I hope not.

Matter of fact, I proudly wore the badge of dishonor until three months ago when I finally had enough of my current job…and this is where the journey had taken me. I cannot quit cold turkey for our expenses do not terminate themselves, and as much as I’d like to walk away from it all, that becomes a particularly irresponsible decision especially with a wife and toddler daughter who need me to provide for them.

When I say work is a means to something else, I mean it is a step to the next role in our lives. Because I have always worked, I implicitly understood that annual evaluations were the best way to gauge my performance relative to the crowd and earn a raise until I landed a job that does neither. As I look back over the years, work has taken many forms for me:  a place to escape home for six to eight hours; the way my rent and books were taken care of; how I would be able to pay for a car, apartment, and afford to “live” like a normal twentysomething; a sort of paradise where I could freely express myself for the first time without repercussions or a second look; the end that would get me noticed as someone who is making moves; and of course, pay for things.

Work is a means to something else. I work to live, not live to work.

What I should’ve been living by all of these years makes more sense today than ever.