It's about 10:00 PST and tomorrow I will get aboard a big, inhoSPITable airplane that will dump me off in Seattle, home of an horrific and inhoSPITable air hub, and then catch another similar aircraft - oh hey! - both rife with screaming kids - that will finally excrete me into Anchorage. Sound bitter? Yah, pretty much. About 65 here now, 30-ish in Anchorage; then on to minus 20-ish in Prudhoe Bay the following morning. Nothing like a visceral slap of incredibly cold weather in the face to make you own up to - what the hell were you thinking?
You make it what it is.
After four months incapacitation I find myself dreading and yes, afraid, of what awaits me back where I work. My colleagues have given the disease we all have about our occupation a name: the Golden Handcuffs.
See, the compensation is so excellent, and you cannot even hope to find a better deal; and you're working less than half a year so it's easier to forgive the misery you deal with when you're on-shift. I guess.
You make it what it is.
Tomorrow I'll see the little brown dogs - the ones that pester the life out of me when I'm cooking in the kitchen - and the ones that have learned that I will take them for walkies every morning - for the last time in two weeks. How can I explain it to the little guys I'm going away for awhile - I don't speak dog-ese.
I of course will cowgirl up like I always do. I will make it what it is - and nothing more. It is a job. It pays the bills.
What has this to do with Stubborn? Not a lot, faithful reader. But perhaps you can get an insight into my mindsight.
Cripes, don't we all have our crosses to bear?
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