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  • I have probably been working
    too many years.
    I started working
    when I was sixteen.
    Well.. Lets just say
    a few decades have gone by.

    Perhaps I'm a bit rusty now.
    Not that I don't care, as I do.
    But now, I'm tired a lot.
    I count days to retirement,
    to make myself feel better,
    even though my husband says,
    "You know you can't retire."
    We are a slave to money, or
    Not that we live high, in our
    drafty old house built in 40's
    with things falling apart,
    or our ratty old honda
    that needs replaced.

    Bad decisions on this or that.

    Anyway, I work at a place
    that is into ...
    Kudos, kudos, kudos.

    Every week the supervisor sends out an email with weekly kudos.
    It is a big thing.
    Rah, rah, rah, sis boom bah!
    It reminds me of all the hollywood award shows.
    A mutual admiration society.

    I don't get kudos much.
    I did yesterday but I didn't care.

    I know employees who tell
    patients they can send in kudos
    on the surveys they get.
    They write down their names for the patients and instruct them on the surveys or even give the
    number and name of the
    supervisor. Those employees
    get lots of kudos. I don't do that.

    A job well done is a job well done. God knows my heart.

    It tires me.
    I work with mostly
    20 and 30 something's.
    They probably don't wake up
    every morning with a headache
    or high blood pressure or reminders of degenerating discs
    in the back.
    They probably look forward to
    Friday kudos.
    I don't.
    I'm a loner and don't seek out
    their company or applause.
    I plod along and do my job
    the best I can.

    I look forward to 9 pm
    when I can put down the
    damn computer tablet and
    be done with the days documenting and have a moment to myself, before it all
    starts again the next day.

    Damn the kudos,
    torpedo the applause.
    My cheerleading days are over.
    I'm not looking for an Academy Award. I'm ready for the days of Driving Miss Daisy. Snore. Time for my nap.
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