As I lay in my bed, trying to fight off whatever latest virus seems to be plaguing me and my son (fever, cough, general lethargy . . . nothing swine-related that I can tell), I can hear the roof guy above my bedroom.
He's prepping the shakes to be power washed tomorrow, nailing down the loose ones, replacing the obvious bad ones. He's been pretty focused; hasn't really taken a break.
There are a lot of benefits to a white-collar job. The pay is good. The benefits are good. You don't have to tie yourself to a steeply slanted roof and hope you keep your footing. You get paid travel and expense accounts.
But now and then, when your brain is tired from the abstract world of finance and economic theories, when its full of academic accounting trivia that is like a foreign language to the layman, I kind of think that the roof guy hasn't got it so bad.
He's getting paid for each hour he works, and doesn't work for ones he doesn't get paid for. When he's finished, he can look back up at the roof and see and touch what he's accomplished. And he gets to do it all in the sunshine of late May in Seattle.