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job satisfaction

So after a week feeling naked (and not in a good way), I have my car and licence back. Saturday afternoon the DMV computer swallowed my name with hardly a burp, and then spat out my renewed licence. An hour later I was standing outside a barbed wire fence with a bulging pocket, waiting for my man. (No, this was not a Lou Reed moment. My man drove a tow truck and had keys to the wrecking yard where they were, uh, storing my car.)

I tell you, I felt truly tough. A real bad backroads criminal. Whoever writes the Highway Traffic Act must think I am someone real special to treat me the way they do. DUIs get their car back the next day, but weekend drivers enjoying a sunny afternoon -- dangerous guys like me -- have to wait a week.

The tow truck guy was nice enough, taking my money. I guess you tend to be nice when you are taking it in, rather than dishing it out. He did comment about the cops who gave me the ticket last week.

Those two are ticket kings, he said. They always work together, always at the top of the list at the end of the month.

That's great, I said, but I didn't mean it. Which is rare for me (not the polite lying part, I do that all the time), because I am usually happy to hear about people who like their work. Couple Fridays ago I ran out of my place with my hastily-filled recycling bag, and just made it to the curb as the garbage truck swung by. The guy on the back had the biggest grin on his face.

Give her here! he called, arms out to take my garbage. I tossed it, he dropped it in, and we shared an early morning thumbs-up. (Might have been a high-five if he had not been wearing the vilest gloves I have ever seen.) What I'm getting at is that he clearly loved his work, and that made me feel good.

Happy bees are one thing. Earnest, hardworking, productive, helpful. But there's something about traffic cops loving their work that's not so heartwarming. Hard to feel warm and fuzzy about happy ants, or happy mosquitoes.


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