I don't sleep well. I'm always tired. My stress levels keep rising, and my blood pressure is stratospheric.
It's not my home life. My only child (one with a pituitary gland problem, as well as a locomotion aliment that doesn't permit her bi-pedal strides) is the poster child of non-problematic. At a mere 77 years old, she still spry in her steps, and hasn't turned grey. Stop scratching your heads, it's a dog.
It's not my day job, per se. I get to look at pretty girls everyday, and handle ridiculous sums of money, which, unfortunately, isn't mine. The cell-phone companies give me too much aggravation, as does the insurance companies, but that's not causing my insomnia.
It's not my night job, even though my students don't open the book, don't study and can't take 10% of a number. I scold them, threaten them, cajole them and finally, when all else fails, fail them. After 10 years of teaching college, it never ceases to amaze me as to the number of people who just waste their precious time taking courses without the slightest interest in learning one iota.
It's not my night, night job, this column. I enjoy being Andy Rooney and Shana Alexander rolled into Samuel Clemens. It's fun, and that's what work should be all about.
