On the Clock: What Low-Wage Work Did to Me and How It Drives America Insane

by Emily Guendelsberger

I start to respond but get ambushed by a yawn midway through the sentence. It’s barely eight. When did I get so tired? It didn’t feel like I was doing that much, and my step counter said I’d only walked six miles. But I can’t keep my eyes open. I barely get my shoes off and into bed before I’m asleep—teeth unbrushed, face unwashed, fully clothed. When my alarm goes off for my second full day of picking, it is the worst my body’s felt in my entire life. And I’m not unfamiliar with pain. As a kid, I went through years of complicated corrective surgeries on my legs, followed by some nasty physical therapy. I’ve broken bones. I get incapacitating migraines. Playing rugby in college, I was once matched up against a woman named Rhonda the Tank. This is worse. It feels like I’ve been hit by a garbage truck. Everything hurts. My feet are the worst, but my back, shoulders, arms, and neck feel terrible, too. My hips, knees, and thighs ache from all the squats to pick from floor-level drawers. My right wrist, hand, and fingers ache from operating the scanner gun. My right elbow aches from pulling open hundreds of drawers. I even have a throbbing headache. I groan involuntarily as I force myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed. The carpet feels like it’s made of knives when I put weight on my feet, but I force myself to limp upstairs to the shower. Even before I’ve made coffee, I swallow a double dose of Advil and toss the bottle in my purse for later. I will need it. At SDF...