Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother writing this column. Every week I reach into the depths of the average cubicle-dweller’s soul, dredge through the detritus and disappointments that dwell in the dreary darkness, and emerge, somehow, with stories of hope and joy and optimism.
And what do you do? Ignore everything.
Earlier this week I ran into a frequent reader of this column.
Therefore, she really had no excuse whatsoever for the situation she currently finds herself in.
After ordering our respective coffees, we settled into a cafe and began to chat. So, I asked her eager to find column topics, how is work and all? (Most of my friends are neurotics with hideous work lives.)
Usually, in my experience, people don’t like to say that they hate their jobs outright. Instead they shrug their shoulders, roll their eyes, moan a little or just drop their face into their hands and sob. They say things like “it goes on yaar” or “same old same old” or “work is work Sidin
” or “I should have never agreed to become Prime Minister in 2009” and so on.
My friend was not so…indirect. “I hate my job,” she said with terrible finality. “I hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it.” Then she gulped down a mouthful of scalding hot coffee, too numb to feel the pain.
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Sidin Vadukut (Photo credit: Wikipedia)