I LOVE my coworkers. Well, 97% of them. You already know I respect my Soop. He lets me rant. He rants. We Vulcan mind meld. All is good.
But my coworkers. God. They're fabulous. Today, Ms T, goddess of the warehouse, tipped me to the fact that if you come down the dock ramp on the left in a forklift, your ta-ta's (listen up girls) don't jiggle like an Elvira movie.
Ms T and the others are truly, truly funny and astute observers-o-life, plus I've learned SO much from them. How to handle heavy equipment, how to move my body safely and keep it healthy, how to stay sane when all about you is insane, how to weather injustice and unkindness, how to laugh.
The golden rule. I have Never seen it so strongly adhered to as I have here. The commonplace rhetoric and betrayals of administration and management workplaces rarely fly here in the trenches.
...Can I just add that my co-workers understand that a good poop is both healthy and feels really good? That's not inappropriate, unprofessional or indelicate. Be honest. A good bm ranks up there. Once you reach 40 years old or above.
They are eccentric, honest, 'entirely on the surface', insightful, intelligent, analytical, alert, aware, frank, and just plain interesting folks. and (to crib from the West Wing) I'm their driver.