I know this feeling rather better than I’d like to admit:
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.
I do nine and a half hours, maybe a little more, but I do try to keep it under ten.
I had a three-year period of unfunemployment many years ago, and it’s motivated me not to have another one if I can help it. Still:
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.
I am a little more hopeful, seeing the model for my future in a Malaise Era car from General Motors, probably with the word “Brougham” on a badge somewhere. I’ve never run especially well, but so far, nickel-and-dime stuff here and there has kept me on the road and away from my deductible.