The most dangerous job
May 22, 2009
Looking at my hands, palms down, from left to right…
Two healing scars on my left thumb. One from trying to open a paint can with a screwdriver, the other from a vicious cardboard cut while taping a box.
One recovering scab on my right thumb, from a door frame that had seemingly popped out of the woodwork.
One cut on the pad of my right pointer finger, picked up from the edge of a plastic pasta salad container. This one hurt the worst.
A series of rough patches of skin on the top of my right ring finger. Dry weather, constant scrapes and a lack of upkeep over the past two weeks are the culprits.
A gash on my right pinkie, thanks to getting in between the fence and our dog, who was getting a little too uptight while meeting the neighbor dogs.
Add to this the aches, bruises, scrapes and pains that accompanied the move, and I can’t imagine anything more dangerous than being a professional mover.
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I sold pianos years ago…try moving a piano by yourself…I’ve done it. That’s why I have some back troubles…and a small hernia…but it doesn’t bother me. Then I worked in radio. The only thing about writing, voicing, and selling commercials is that one is selling puffs of air…and hopefully someone will buy. But every once in a while….nobody buys. Now I’m into woodworking. Hmmm, I’ve been careful so far. I did drive taxi for six years. Three assaults and one attempted robbery. I did like the work, however.