While stillness still pervaded the realm, the symphony added a repetitive cymbal inspired clang. Suddenly from below the thick duvet an arm cracked the stillness of the dark room.
The hand stabbed into the night searching for the symphony’s conductor. It finally located the off button and extinguished the blaring alarm. My eyes were painted with blackness.
A faint red light appeared as my eyes adjusted. It read 5:00am. I suspect, and indeed feel pretty certain that in no particular part of our expanding universe would anybody be notably ecstatic about commencing their day at this time of the morning. I reluctantly cast aside my warm and comfortable duvet as the cobwebs cleared, jumpstarting my slowly awakening neurons. I slowly made my way to the bathroom for a hot, hasty shower and then proceeded downstairs for a quick breakfast.
I must say toasted English muffins coated in creamy peanut butter really does hit the spot. My father was already waiting to deliver me to my part time job. I worked as a fuel attendant at Ferndale Comet. As we exited the house, the biting Arctic cold assaulted our exposed skin.
No matter what fancy tech winter clothing you were wearing, what was glaringly obvious was that humans were not meant to be outdoors when the temperature plunged to 35 degrees below zero.
As we approached the massive fuel station, the sun was nowhere to be seen. With winter annihilating the Canadian population at this intolerable hour of the morning, there were no cars on the road and thus no clients. I said my goodbyes to my father and appreciated his sacrifice of waking up so early in such dire circumstances to enable me to have a job that provided me with some pocket money.
I was working the full service bays today, which meant I would fill the customer’s tanks and then collect the money. Each shift would have three employees, each servicing a different area of the station.
While huddled in relative comfort in the main building, the three of us prayed that no clients would arrive at this ungodly hour in this frigid environment to force us out into the unholy winter elements. As the wind thrashed the snowflakes around, the three of us watched as a car slowly inched forward on the road. It slowly turned toward us as it moved forward under the laser watch of three pairs of eyes and silent prayers for it to continue its journey beyond our station.
“Oh God, please don’t let it stop at the full service tanks,” I now prayed. One would not need the results of any customer’s Stanford-Binet intelligence test to ascertain which fuel bay a customer would park his/her car in a -30 degree environment. If they parked anywhere other than the full service bays, then just know that you are undoubtedly in a dream state.
And so it was, the car stopped right where we all thought it would. My two friends and workmates laughed and teased me good-naturedly. My adolescent mind being what it was, now ruminated on those outlawed words our parents forbade us from uttering. I slipped on my thick winter gloves and ran out into the frigid winter mess. A middle aged man rolled down his window and requested “10 dollars please”.
He wisely rolled up his window quickly.
I quickly ran to the fuel tank and tried to twist open the cap with my thick gloves. Owing to the steadfast laws of physics and chemistry, it was a pipe dream to actually think I would undo the cap with my gloves on in this cold.
I reluctantly slipped off my glove while once again ruminating on those outlawed words I wouldn’t dare let my parents hear. Finally the stubborn cap came off and I quickly deposited 10 Canadian dollar’s worth of Petro Canada’s finest into his thirsty tank. I prayed he had the exact amount so that I could finally rush back into the waiting warmth of the main building.
But alas, it was not to be. Mr Middle-age was going to pay with his credit card. That meant I had to run into the building, running his card through the machine and then run back out for him to sign the slip. All the while being cheered on and pelted by the seething winter.
I really should have stayed underneath my warm duvet that morning. The main prize for this intricate wintertime ballet was my pay cheque waiting for me at the end of the month.
And while this cash injection allowed me the freedom of purchasing my clothes or being able to afford tickets to the movies, one may ask the question; Does money buy you happiness? New research found that a higher income is correlated with a higher level of happiness. Taking it a step further, the researchers examined who, exactly, is seeing their wellbeing improve with more money in their pockets. The answer: Most of the population, the researchers found. While happiness began to slightly level off among study participants who earned at least $500,000 yearly, the researchers stated that not many participants exceeded that threshold.
Furthermore, the happiest 30% of the population sees even less of a plateau. Surprisingly, the researchers discovered that when participants earn more than $100,000 per year, their happiness continues to rise and even accelerates slightly!!! In the end, researchers state while there may be a correlation between happiness and money, they are insignificant in your overall satisfaction. It is in the areas that you find most joy such as hobbies and our personal relationships that ultimately determine your level of happiness. I think we knew that anyway.
