This evening I was feeling rather sorry for myself. Due to doctor's appointments and the ongoing depression/ panic crap, I'm still struggling with making my work hours. Since I really need those hours - and we just got several new clients at the office and are swamped with work - I volunteered to work this weekend. Normally it would be considered time and a half, but mine won't unless I go over the number of hours I owed, which is unlikely.
On my way home I went to the grocery store, and I spent a good deal of time having a pity party. Not about anything dramatic - just the busy parking lot, the traffic, a sinus headache, and the irritation of knowing that I have to go back to the office after church. But I found everything I needed pretty quickly and got in line.
The cashier was an older gentleman whose accent told me he's from another country, not sure where. I asked him if he was getting off work soon, and he smiled and shook his head.
"I've been here since 10. My feet and legs, you know, they get so tired."
And then I went home and ate a delicious salad with expensive ingredients that I could afford to buy, in a well-heated apartment. And I wondered how on earth I could complain about a job that lets me make up hours on the weekend, at an office job where I'm mostly seated and can get a glass of water or go to the bathroom whenever I want.