The folks who broke the news that newspaper reporting was the worst job of 2013 have come out with another cheerful list. Newspaper reporters have the eighth most stressful job.
Police officers came in ninth.
That's right -- according to CareerCast.com, newspaper reporters have a more stressful job than police officers. But do you know who has a more stressful job than police officers and reporters?
Newspaper editors.
I wish the p-u-b-l-i-c or the police or CareerCast.com could walk in my shoes for just one week. They don't know the meaning of stress.
Let them try to predict the preferred pizza toppings for a group of ravenous reporters working the holidays. You try and be in charge of ordering pizzas for that crew. There's always going to be some rogue vegetarian requesting some unholy topping such as pineapple (why not throw battery acid on your pizza?). There will be griping about a mass order of pepperoni pizzas even though pepperoni is God's choice of topping and it says so right there in the Book of Genesis, I think.
Show of hands -- how many of you have to spell every single word correctly every single time?
Granted, police officers face potential dangerous situations every day, but do they fret over using "its" when they really mean "it's"? Affect or effect? Do they suffer from the recurring nightmare of committing career-crippling typos, such as leaving the "l" out of "public"? No, they do not.
And let them -- and the others with so-called more stressful jobs such as military generals and airline pilots -- try and conquer our newsroom printers. Sooner or later, Satan's toys will tear your heart out and feed it to you on a pizza.
Settling staff vacations?
Settling vacation conflicts?
Settling staff conflicts?
Settling more pizza conflicts?
I'd rather land a 747 on a skinny, rocky Bahamian airstrip. During a Category 5 hurricane. With no landing gear. While nursing a tequila hangover.
I didn't mean that. I'm just stressed out. You try remembering the first name of that nice man who comes in the evening and takes the trash out of your office and you talk a little sports and thank him three times but still can't remember his name.
OK, deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths.
And spell after me . . .
Public . . . public . . . public . . .