Got time to lean, got time to learn
Colorado is renowned for our spectacular seasons: Winter and ….Construction.
For the next eight months, I’m trapped in the season of scenic cranes and orange cones as a decaying bridge in my neighborhood is torn down and replaced. Every day, the blinking sign reminds me the project will be completed in July 2014.
My “improved” daily routine involves navigating a comical detour while the hard-hatted workers attempt to control traffic. They urge impatient drivers to STOP and SLOW accordingly.
The construction has provided me an opportunity for personal improvement as well. Since breaking ground, empathetic passengers have humored me by listening to my daily rants. I’ve gone through most of the grief phases for loss of my bridge:
- Denial and Isolation – “There is no way this is going to take a year.”
- Anger – “Are you kidding me? I’m gonna be late for Zumba!”
- Bargaining – “Can’t you just let me through this one time? I live right there.”
- Depression– “I’m not leaving the house today (sigh).”
Four months into the project, my friends have reached their limit for soothing my toddler-like tantrums.
Now I’m forced to direct my second phase of loss at the innocent sign holders; they’re an easy target after all. The only job I could think of being less rewarding than holding a sign for hours, would be Richard Simmons’ stylist: “Red tank top and striped shorty-shorts again, sir?”
These guys are kinda in construction, yet aren’t building anything. They’re kinda in law enforcement, but don’t get a shiny badge or firearm. Most of them seem resigned to their humble task. The neon-vested urban cowboys half-heartedly guide the herd of commuters while talking on the phone or smoking Marlboros.
But there’s one guy who holds his cautionary post in one hand and a textbook in the other. You can tell it’s not a book for pleasure. It’s clunky and hard covered; he’s not reading it, he’s studying it.
As an undergrad, I held a job as a line cook on nights and weekends. The class that relentlessly punished me was Cell Biology. The auditorium was full of international pre-med students. Clearly I was in way over my head. But I signed up, paid and was determined to tread water.
In an effort to survive the tidal wave of reading assignments, I’d scan my scientific text until alerted by the kitchen printer’s hum. When we were slammed, that book was nowhere to be found. But on Monday nights, that baby was open, getting toasty under the heat lamps.
You could tell my Executive Chef wasn’t thrilled with my…multi-tasking. My time was on his dime after all. In pro kitchens the mantra is: “If you got time to lean, you got time to clean.” And there I was furiously highlighting the function of mitochondria.
But Chef never said a word. He knew I was juggling work and school with nary a silver spoon to be found in my mouth. No work = No tuition = Maruchan for life.
I imagine the foreman of this bridge job and the young sign holder have the same unspoken agreement. Sometimes bosses look the other way, recognizing the importance of the bigger picture.
Managers probably don’t want to punish their employees for trying to improve themselves, and may even be secretly rooting for them. I suppose it’s like a parent wanting their kids to be successful. And maybe your employees’ self-improvement could pay dividends for you someday.
As for the construction by my house, it’s a third of the way done. I’m curious to see what new textbooks Mr. Sign Holder will be flipping though next. It took his foreman and my old Chef less time than me, but it looks like I’m at the final phase of loss of my beloved bridge: