Years ago, I won some scratch tickets at a work holiday party, and when my boss saw it was me, he said, “You can’t quit if you win.”
I didn’t, just like my wife and I have never won more than a couple dollars from the scratch cards my mother gets us each Christmas, just like I didn’t win the one time I’ve played Powerball.
But if we ever did come into an insane amount of money, wherever I worked would get two weeks while we set about to paying off the mortgage and seeing what real estate in London (or New York or Los Angeles) looked like for at least part of the year.
Then you’d never see me at work again.
My work isn’t going to lead to world peace or cures for cancer or Alzheimer’s, but it’s also not a “bulls—t job” (although, like at any other workplace, there’s a certain amount of BS that goes on).
It’s a middle-management position, in charge of about 20 people. I like what I do, think I’m good at it, am happy when it goes well, unhappy when it doesn’t. The BS drive me insane, and I’ve had many co-workers of whom I’m incredibly fond.
And if the money was right, I’d be gone.
I don’t have a particularly romantic view of the concept of working. From when I was 16 with a need to insure my first car to now with a mortgage at 46, I work because vendors don’t accept good looks and obvious charm as payment. Only the terms have changed.
And if people did accept good looks and obvious charm as payment … I’d still need to get a job.
But while I’m unromantic about work, I also know work is unromantic about me.
However, everyone, whether they liked me or not, couldn’t afford to miss me at work. Life goes on, and so does work. It still needs to get done.
When I’m gone, someone else will do the job.