As far as I can figure, my coworkers’ neediness—because that’s what it is—stems from chronic deprivation. The home owners aren’t going to thank us for a job well done, and God knows, people on the street aren’t going to hail us as heroines of proletarian labor. No one will know that the counter on which he slices the evening’s baguette only recently supported a fainting woman—and decide to reward her with a medal for bravery. No one is going to say, after I vacuum ten rooms and still have time to scrub a kitchen floor, “Goddamn, Barb, you’re good!” Work is supposed to save you from being an
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