The Line

I love my job.

I love standing for anywhere from 7-10 or more hours straight on concrete basement floors.

I love being covered in any number of baked good entrails for the latter portion of the workday.

I love the cocoa powder embedded under my fingernails to where I almost resemble a coal miner with just slightly less hazardous work conditions and minus the reasonable pension (as I'm assuming all the coal miner's daughter references I've heard refer to Daddy being paaaaaiiiid).

But I digress. I believe I was telling a love story...

Yes I love my job. Kinda like small children love pithy blackness and vegetable Mondays or CEO's love being audited.

No. Scratch that.

The way small business owners love being audited.

Bingo!

But let's be serious here...If there is a thin line between love and hate then I am officially doing a prima ballerina perfect 90 degree angle arabesque on that line. Which has to mean that the hatred towards my current occupation can only mean that I am a hair's breadth away from the job I love.

Thin line right?

So here's to the line. I am raising my imaginary martini glass (because after all I am a lady), to that line (ok, so that martini glass contains a *Manhattan, sue me), and all the "better" that better be right across that line.

And here's to having a great "before" story to tell the kids. Or Barbara Walters. Or those poor kids on vegetable Mondays ("I understand, I hate turnips too....")

Cheers!

*Manhattan(cocktail): made with Canadian whisky, sweet vermouth, bitters, and a cherry ;-).

TGihT