I'm happily adopting false consciousness to enjoy my new jobbie, even while it runs me ragged with long and odd hours, unaccounted time travelling and disregard for the dialectical materialism I know to be objective truth. But maybe I just needed a change. The odd and flexible hours suit me, as does the extra income, and I'm now learning to manage the fits and starts in workload to suit.
At first, I got all guilty when I'd be at home twiddling thumbs with nothing to do, then stressed from the 14 hr marathons when the workload (with 24 hr deadlines) came in at 6pm. After 5 weeks, I'm learning that when it's slow, that's the time to catch up on Laundry Mountain and Dirty Dishes Peak, reduce the filing backlog and go on the Post Office run. If the year on the dole (2006) taught me nothing else, it was that one should always get outside at least once a day. And when there's tsunami of 'incoming', one prioritises, ploughs through as much as is possible, and when exhausted or booked for something more enjoyable- one stops! Though I'll never be houseproud, it's been years since the flat was so tidy.
I got in trouble at the last jobbie for over-flexing my hours, until I kept the timesheets to show I was doing way more than contracted hrs but with a lengthened cycle. Once on a roll, I prefer to follow a thread. What was penalised before is now rewarded, such that I get kudos for the ability to work stupid hrs on a 36 hr cycle if needed, and freedom to take these back once my tank reaches empty,
I couldn't do this job if the kiddos were still wee, when routine and reliable off-time was needed. Now they're big, braw and mostly looking after themselves with gentle guidance, it's perfect. Kiddos, like me, seldom know from one day to the next whether I'll be home monitoring their friends' visits and school lateness or away 'in the field' so they're unexpectedly shipped back to the benevolent Nazi dictatorship at their Dad's.
My dear departed dad's Aunt Elsie had a saying (accompanied by lateral circular hand gesture) of "Mix 'em up, mix 'em up", meaning keep 'em guessing and on the back foot. A rule for living, I think.