If Father Knows Best is any guide, the patriarchy came home from work at 3:30 in the afternoon.
The Anderson’s have breakfast together, a scene from which one or another of the children leaps up before finishing because they are late for school. Father always finishes his meal and then drives downtown to his office. When do you suppose his workday starts? 9 o’clock? 8:30 at the very earliest.
Fast forward to modern times. Your faithful correspondent is at her station no fewer than 10 hours a day, often 11+. Granted, your faithful correspondent has always been afraid not to work, in case work dries up and she is subsequently locked out of work forever. Your faithful correspondent is a nurse by trade so that unemployment scenario is extremely unlikely but even so let’s not take any unnecessary chances.
The point is I’m wearing down. I’ve always fancied myself to have the freedom to manage my own destiny and stop working anytime I felt was right for me. But I suddenly realized that I am too young for Medicare and that my work-provided insurance coverage is going to keep me tied to my job for years longer than I want to work. Such is my demographic detail and my on-the-record party affiliation that Obamacare is not good for me. Even though I am relatively issue-free now, it will only take one good fall or the discovery of one irregularly shaped mole to put me in a boxcar headed for the glue factory.
So I’m a victim. A current victim of fear; a future victim of winnowing the herd. Obama wins.
Anyway, the Anderson’s have a beautiful spacious home, belong to a country club, have tuxedos and party dresses and a gardener. Pocket money for impulse purchases like pony pictures or money for college never seems to be a worry. That’s pretty good for a single income family where the bread earner puts in minimal time. That Father must have sold a shit ton of insurance policies while he was there.
I’m working like a beast of burden and my efforts reach almost 200,000 people – no kidding – on the first touch. I’m not irreplaceable but I’m uber productive and I make more money than I ever dreamed possible. Not a lot of money – just more than I ever thought I would make. Still, I never throw away the stem end of a tomato and I could write my own sit com episode about how I can convince myself that it’s necessary for my future financial security to let go of no more than $20 per visit to the gas station.
Also, I have no time or capacity left at the end of the day for blogging.