The burn on my left hand was as big as a doorknob and so large that I wasn't able to fit latex gloves around my blistered palm while I folded scratchy towels at the fitness center. The blistered burn was a constant reminder of the perils of overwork. And folding towels was only one of the four jobs I had that summer.
I was 20 years old, and I didn't have a car. My solution: Stop at nothing to earn enough money to buy one. To me, that meant serving at a wedding reception until 1 a.m., turning around at 8 a.m. and folding towels at the fitness club the next morning, ringing up Osh Kosh overalls in my red Kids "R" Us vest that afternoon, working another dinner party that night and then waking up the next morning to mow a lawn before serving at a 9 a.m. breakfast — day after day after day.
I got the burn the summer before my junior year of college. I was coming off a weekend of three consecutive 14-hour shifts at the Kansas Speedway and a week of double shifts at the banquet hall. It was Saturday morning, and I was mowing a lawn at a house a couple blocks from my
parents. Having gotten a late start and knowing I had to be at the banquet hall in an hour, I was moving fast. The grass hadn't been mowed in what looked like months. After mowing for 40 minutes, I realized that not only was I not going to get done with the neighbor's yard, but if I didn't get a ride home and then to work fast, I was going to be late for my next job. I called my dad and when he pulled up in the VW van in minutes, I was relieved. Great, I thought, I'm going to make it to work and when I get home, I'll finish the lawn. So my dad, graciously going along with my plan, opened up the back of his van and cleared the way to make room for the mower. We lifted the big heavy red mower into the van. I gave it a good push and that was when I screamed. I had placed my left hand on the scorching silver metal portion of the exposed lawn mower motor. The pain was deafening, and I screamed uncontrollably until I had my hand submerged in ice water back home. At the hospital, we found out that I had a second degree burn on my hand. I looked down at the singed, wrinkled white skin in too much pain to respond to this news.
The rest of the day is blurry to me — filled with a drug store visit and heavy painkillers.
I had driven myself into such a physically exhausted state that I literally became unable to operate machinery. There's no reason it should have come to that.
My mom would tell me, "Anja, maybe you're doing too much," to which I would quickly retort, "Well, maybe if you bought me a car, I wouldn't be doing this." Then the conversation would end.
But looking back, I realize it wasn't just wanting a car that had me working at an unrelenting pace. This almost deadly characteristic of mine is part of who I am. And I grew up with a role model for this type of behavior: my dad. He's a software engineer, a small business owner, an Olathe orchestra trombonist, an adult Sunday school teacher, a church elder, an avid runner and marathoner, a husband, a dad and for this year, a foreign exchange student's dad too. No wonder I tend to juggle a lot. When I'm on break and not working at the banquet hall, I feel guilty for not doing something productive. I can't even
sit through a movie without thinking about the homework I could be doing. I simply don't feel right if I'm not busy. It's this little voice inside me that drives me to completely ignore my physical state and keep on working until I get what I want, even if that means lowering the overall quality of my life.
I am taking baby steps to get better. I am a lot more careful now when I'm feeling overworked. And last spring I stopped playing in the KU symphony orchestra, which bought me more than five hours a week. But still, I took 15 hours and worked 35 hours a week last semester.
I guess I'm just one of those people who can't seem to stop and take a breath. But my hope is that next time I'm tempted to work until it kills me, the scar on my hand will remind me that there's more to life than buying a car or graduating with two majors or showing the boss how valuable an employee I am. This is life. It only comes around once. Slow it down.
—awinikka@kansan.com
04.14.05 Jayplay
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