Addicted to Workahol.

Stacey comments the other day that she is jealous about the fact that we are back to school. This is a feeling that I understand, the workforce is one hard taskmaster and if you happen to be fortunate enough to end up with some closet dominatrix as your immediate supervisor, well, you'll find yourself frequently wishing for a return to the security that academia provides. Nothing really matters here. Program submission deadlines and calculus midterms are the sole puntuators of a stress level that is constantly somewhere below Tense.

All that considered, every time I go to Toronto, I have to fight the urge to stay there. The work-world, although considerably more stressful and decidedly frenetic, offers an unparalleled sense of freedom. Sure, the stakes are higher; deciding to skip an assignment most likely will get you fired, you can't tell people what you really think about them and expect no consequence, and you will be in dire straits if you don't get a steady paycheque (well, unless your name is Phil Verlinden).

But real work has substance. Whether you're picking up dope needles in a park so the next three-year old to fall on his ass won't get stuck and die well before his time. Or perhaps you're ordering inventory for a store and you have pride in the fact that you've done your job well, so that when the five year old girl comes in with her father on a Saturday, to buy her very first bike; a bike which she's been talking about for days and dreaming about for months - she won't be disappointed. Or, you work in a law firm and help in the incorporation of companies - companies which employ hundreds or thousands of people - companies which provide families with opportunities they may not otherwise have.

For years now this is what I've told people. It is quite possibly true that you may never see quantifiable evidence that what you do has meaning; you may never meet those whose lives you have affected - this is where blind faith comes in. It is inexplicably difficult to convince the sixteen year old cashier that, by being happy, friendly and genuinely interested in each and every customer that passes through her line, she has the power to turn an argument with a spouse four hours later into a pleasant family evening.

Pithy? Perhaps. But true none the less. I prefer to live in the real world where what I do really does have meaning and it won't be soon enough that I'm back there.