They’ll complain that it’s too hard, unfair, too rough, but I’ve got a different theory.  Life is too easy for the heavy majority working people.  Once they get a steady job, the pay check shows up every two weeks, maybe they found someone to marry – that’s a wrap.  There’s a giant chunk of people who all but check out at that point.  Entire days, weeks, months they can go, on total autopilot.  The alarm clock rings.  They’ve got to show up at the same place for work, at the same time, with the same people, doing mostly the same shit.  Apart from minor adjustments, they can turn their brain off, let muscle memory take over.  Downshift, push the entire thing into battery conservation mode.  Their pleasantries are stock, ready to deliver.  “How’s it going?”  “Fine, thanks.”  “How are you?”  “Fine, thanks.”  “What are you up to?” “Fine, thanks.”  Their coffee orders don’t change.  They know generally what to expect from traffic.  All they’ve got to do is vaguely pay attention to the color of stop lights, watch for stray dogs, and remember to turn off the oven before bed.

They punch out of work, stuff themselves into their Volkswagen Passat, and sing their way back home at the end of the day.  Maybe they’ve got groceries to buy, or dinner to prepare, but that’s far from a challenge.

It’s simple, it’s mind-numbingly easy, and it’s aimless.  It doesn’t take an ounce of ambition.  Their only struggles come from over-tightened pickle jars.  Exhaustion occurs as a result of staying up too late, binge watching The Walking Dead.  You can see it in their beady little eyes, submission.  They’ve all but handed over the keys to life.  Someone else determines their schedule.  Nothing is new.  The hairs on the back of their neck are comatose.  Adrenal glands lay dormant, or mildly aroused by caffeine.

It’s an effortless coast toward death, physically and mentally.  Some people don’t sweat for months at a time.  No gym, no jogging, air conditioned, climate controlled existence – all day every day.  Their bodies soften into putty.  Nothing demands grit or will power or courage.  They slowly expand, a few pounds heavier each year, until their love handles brush against the door frame upon entrance.

With the same group, of the same gossiping coworkers, having the same conversations, very little is complicated.  Beliefs and values stay exactly the same from the third year of their career to the grave.  Never rehashed, never reexamined.  Basic fundamental mathematics dwindle, reading and writing skills grow stale.  Critical thinking has fully callused over.  Everything is submerged and soggy in lukewarm water.

No wonder people freak the fuck out at any hint of disorder.  You can’t expect a person who hasn’t had to work through a tough situation in decades, to step to the plate in a time of crisis.  They crumble.  They panic, they cry, their noses bubble with snot, and they shut it the fuck down.  I’d guess 70% of working people fall into this category.  The people in this group can be broken with a single waft of adversity.

Someone should test my theory, scientifically.  A simple test.  Catch people after work, when that auto pilot light is burning nice and hot.  It wouldn’t take much.  Let them buy their groceries, ask them a few questions – questions that require some basic critical thinking, and then have an stern-faced man grab a hold of their shopping cart.  Nothing too crazy, a good question and a firm grip on their basket.  That’s all.

I hypothesize that seventy percent of people will fall apart.  First of all, they won’t be able to answer any critical questions.  Their eyebrows will come together in the middle of their face.  Instantly they’ll develop migraines.  Some of them will fall over right in front of you.  You’ll get effort from a few, they’ll try.  Then they’ll glaze over with nervous sweat.  Their chins will jiggle with confusion.  Their eyes will bounce all over the room.  And finally, they’ll spit out some default answer –“Fine, thanks.”  They’ll throw out anything in hopes of an escape.

Next, they’ve got to deal with the shopping cart situation.  They won’t understand why this heavy jawed man hasn’t released their basket of groceries.  The thought of conflict or confrontation will turn the majority of them into piss puddles.  They’ll clutch themselves and squint with discomfort before turning and running for the exit.  It doesn’t matter what’s left in the cart.  They’ll ditch the groceries and scramble through the parking lot looking over their shoulders.

I’d like to run the test with heart rate monitors.  As they slam and lock their doors behind them, the monitor would probably read in the two hundred beats per minute range.  They’d have to sit there for a few minutes just breathing, wondering how everything went so awry.  Then, I imagine, they’ll stop to order take-out, drive the same route home, and bury the memory under several episodes of Orange is the New Black.

In conclusion:  regardless of work, stay alive, while you’re alive.