As some of you may already know, I’m a truck driver. Sometimes. I used to have a career that was (arguably) a bit more prestigious and respectable, did reasonably well for myself, and retired a few years ago.
Until my wife told me to get out.
Actually, as I recall her exact words, she said: “Get the hell out of here. Go fishing. Get a job. Go play golf. I don’t care. But, get the hell out of here. You’re driving me nuts.”
And so, my seven-month retirement came to a halt. (Truth be known, I was getting bored, anyway; though the life of a couch potato has its allure, it can wear thin. And then there’s that premature heart failure thing to consider.)
In reality, I’d already considered the wisdom of having a fall-back occupation. You see, I’d only held basically two jobs in my entire adult life: the Army, and my recently-ended tenure with the Federal government as an air traffic controller. While I retired fairly comfortably, I’d also considered the possibility that I might someday need to acquire extra income—and would need some sort of marketable skill that would enable me to do so. Inasmuch as the sum total of my occupational skills consisted pretty much of shooting people and shoving airplanes around (neither of which I can do, anymore—at least, not legally), it was clear that I needed to expand my horizons. So, I decided to take the plunge into the world of trucking.
The most common reaction to my new career aspiration was: “You’re gonna do what ?!?!”
And then there was the doctor’s reaction when I showed up for the required physical exam: “Are you out of your mind? Do you know how dangerous that is?” This he asked a split second after he thumped me solidly on my forehead to get my attention (literally).
Actually, I never thought of driving an 80,000-pound missile as particularly dangerous (though truck-driving is consistently listed among the ten most hazardous occupations). And driving met my three primary requirements: (1) I refuse to be chained to a desk, (2) I refuse to punch a clock, and (3) I absolutely refuse to ever wear a necktie again as long as I live (a policy particularly worrisome to my potentially marriage-minded daughter, who no doubt cringes at the very real prospect of being given away at the altar by the only guy present without neckwear).
Anyway…for better or worse, I took the plunge, got my commercial driver’s license (hereinafter referred to as a CDL), and hit the road. Until a dispatcher aggravated me—and I quit. Then, I got tired of being retired (again), and started driving for another company—until yet another dispatcher didn't take seriously my warning that my bullshit-tolerance capacity had long since been exhausted by the Federal government and I didn't really need the job, anyway (is a pattern beginning to emerge?). So, I drive for awhile–until someone gets under my skin–then I retire for awhile. And so on.
I tell you all this only because some of what will appear on this site comes from my newfound occupational perspective.
Until my wife told me to get out.
Actually, as I recall her exact words, she said: “Get the hell out of here. Go fishing. Get a job. Go play golf. I don’t care. But, get the hell out of here. You’re driving me nuts.”
And so, my seven-month retirement came to a halt. (Truth be known, I was getting bored, anyway; though the life of a couch potato has its allure, it can wear thin. And then there’s that premature heart failure thing to consider.)
In reality, I’d already considered the wisdom of having a fall-back occupation. You see, I’d only held basically two jobs in my entire adult life: the Army, and my recently-ended tenure with the Federal government as an air traffic controller. While I retired fairly comfortably, I’d also considered the possibility that I might someday need to acquire extra income—and would need some sort of marketable skill that would enable me to do so. Inasmuch as the sum total of my occupational skills consisted pretty much of shooting people and shoving airplanes around (neither of which I can do, anymore—at least, not legally), it was clear that I needed to expand my horizons. So, I decided to take the plunge into the world of trucking.
The most common reaction to my new career aspiration was: “You’re gonna do what ?!?!”
And then there was the doctor’s reaction when I showed up for the required physical exam: “Are you out of your mind? Do you know how dangerous that is?” This he asked a split second after he thumped me solidly on my forehead to get my attention (literally).
Actually, I never thought of driving an 80,000-pound missile as particularly dangerous (though truck-driving is consistently listed among the ten most hazardous occupations). And driving met my three primary requirements: (1) I refuse to be chained to a desk, (2) I refuse to punch a clock, and (3) I absolutely refuse to ever wear a necktie again as long as I live (a policy particularly worrisome to my potentially marriage-minded daughter, who no doubt cringes at the very real prospect of being given away at the altar by the only guy present without neckwear).
Anyway…for better or worse, I took the plunge, got my commercial driver’s license (hereinafter referred to as a CDL), and hit the road. Until a dispatcher aggravated me—and I quit. Then, I got tired of being retired (again), and started driving for another company—until yet another dispatcher didn't take seriously my warning that my bullshit-tolerance capacity had long since been exhausted by the Federal government and I didn't really need the job, anyway (is a pattern beginning to emerge?). So, I drive for awhile–until someone gets under my skin–then I retire for awhile. And so on.
I tell you all this only because some of what will appear on this site comes from my newfound occupational perspective.
After the retirement of Woody Hayes (long ago head coach of Ohio State football team), a reporter asked Mrs Hayes how Woody's retirement was going. She said, "I married him for better or for worse, but not for lunch". I think she was saying the same thing as your wife said.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteActually, as I recall her exact words, she said: “Get the hell out of here. Go fishing. Get a job. Go play golf. I don’t care. But, get the hell out of here. You’re driving me nuts.”
ReplyDeleteMust I repeat myself?