The Meaning of Work

A group of women urged to reveal past jobs they disliked were surprisingly candid, and overall positive about the careers they had chosen.

All these ladies were over 70, their backgrounds, locations, types of bosses they had and had been, and levels of education were varied, diverse, and interesting. But most agreed they didn’t have many complaints.

For instance, one woman had been a social worker in a court system and then in a prison, and her stories were a bit frightening, if not entertaining, and certainly heart rendering.

Another thought her years as a nurse were satisfying and meaningful, leading her to work in a Planned Parenthood clinic and become involved with gays and transsexual individuals.

An artist in the group was adamant she never had a job she disliked … maybe her clients weren’t her favorite, but she loved the art she produced, and the creativity that flowed through and from her.

One woman spent her working life for the U.S. government in Atlanta, Denver, and in Washington D.C. She talked about traveling with First Lady Rosalynn Carter; how she encouraged women who wanted to move up in the workplace to understand the skills needed for advancement; and how she understood a minor piece of communication between a department and an elected official might find its way to the front page of the Washington Post with devastating, amusing, or embarrassing consequences.

A celebrated pianist recalled the trials and rewards of her leadership of a chamber music NGO while raising a daughter and traveling across the United States and foreign countries with her musical group. This was a career satisfying to her soul but certainly didn’t enhance her bank account. But she voiced no regrets. And there I sat, having enjoyed several careers from reporter to apartment manager of hundreds of units, then to business owner, jumping to banking executive and settling in as a chamber of commerce executive director. I was the only one who complained about a job I didn’t like. It was one of my first ventures into receiving a salary and I hated the work. I was tasked to cleaning the bathroom in the newspaper office my parents owned.

I had many jobs in that office, but that one did not endear me to cleaning black printers’ ink from nasty sinks. I love the smell of the back shop press room where the aroma of ink and paper are brought together. But I avoid those bathrooms, fearful someone will hand me a cleaning rag and insist I get to work.