The bloom has definitely worn off. My job isn't new and sparkly anymore, and if I
had my choice, I'd work only about three days a week. On the other hand, the fact
that I'd still choose to go in at all means that I still like the place a lot. I
just wish working for a living didn't have to take up quite so much of that
life.
The sad part is that now I can't even pretend to myself that if
I didn't work I would be writing a book, redecorating the house, or finishing some
other exciting project. I was home for six months and I didn't do any of that. Of
course, I was looking for a job, but no matter what anyone says, that really
doesn't take as much of the day as actually holding down a job. At least, not in a
downturn when no one is calling for interviews. At least, not for me, though
others might be more industrious.
I would, of course, have been more
likely to redo the house or build an airplane if unemployment didn't always seem
to involve loss of salary (darn it!) so maybe I still have some excuse. It's
fairly obvious, though, that no matter what else I did, a sizeable portion of my
time would still be spent in that same chair, reading. Well, someone has to be the
consumer for all the writers out there who do actually get things
written.
Incidentally, on the house front, we're going to sign the
final papers today to refinance our house, going to a 15-year loan. The rate is a
bit lower and we don't have to pay mortgage insurance any more so it's only a bit
more (well, not quite a *little* bit)) than we currently pay. And so back to work,
since I need to leave early for that.