it’s about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward.

How much you can take, and keep moving forward.

That’s how winning is done.

Now, if you know what you worth, go out and get what you worth.  But you gotta be willing to take the hits.  And not pointing fingers saying: You ain’t what you wanna be because of him or her or anybody.

I took some big hits last week.  Some very big hits.  But, trying to keep moving forward, and prove that I can take it.  Looks like I survived the first week of training (barely) and got invited back for another week. Hopefully I’ll have two more weeks of training and then be a legitimate employee. I had planned on writing up a big post complaining about how hard on me my FTO has been, but decided to just leave at, she’s tough and I’m learning a lot. I am not exaggerating when I say that I think she is enjoying watching me suffer.

My posting might be sporadic over the next couple weeks while I try to finish out my training and survive the crazy shifts. My schedule is a 24-hour shift Monday-Tuesday and then a 36-hour shift Wednesday-Thursday night. The 36-hour shift was rough. REAL rough. I need to get better at sleeping in 2-hour spurts in the station bunks with my uniform pants on. Last week I could barely fall asleep between calls, and my performance suffered greatly as I was totally exhausted. I’ve always been a bit of a finicky sleeper, so the new environment coupled with the stress of passing my training coupled with sleeping in uncomfortable Dickies EMT pants with my contacts in and knowing I have to be able to wake up and be at the rig ready for call in under 2-minutes hasn’t really been jiving. I think it’s one of those things like the military- you adjust and learn to conch out when you can out of necessity. Speaking of the military, did I mention that I learned my FTO is a former Army Sergeant? And yes, I think she hates me and she kinda did haze me on Thursday and yes, she did make me cry. Ugh. How unprofessional of me. :(

By the way, I’m beginning to think of every single office job in the world as a “cupcake” job, because my past 60-hours of working as an EMT have been REAL HARD WORK. We are out there sweating, moving heavy people around, on practically no sleep, remaining friendly and compassionate while being on top of assessments and noticing the tiniest detail (missing something like a shunt could be a critical fail), eating whenever we have a spare second, and generally not being entirely appreciated by the patients. All for $9 an hour. I don’t miss my job on the trading floor, but man- do I realize now how cushy office jobs are! Ahh, the days of bringing in 100k while surfing the internet all day, emailing, two hour lunches, fancy ergonomic chairs and skipping out to the gym during work are over.

I’m looking forward to this job toughening me up and of course the end of the day satisfaction of feeling like I really did measurable good work, helping people in need and dare I say it… saving lives. On Thursday after work I was standing in line at the taco truck in SF’s financial district to grab Earl and I some tacos to nosh, and these three slicked-back-parted-hair bankers, sporting preppy striped Thomas Pink shirts, pointy Italian shoes, and horn rimmed glasses walked out of their office building and stood ins line behind me, loudly mucking it up about buy sides and leverage and who the hottest summer interns are. (Note- I’ve noticed SF i-bankers are tad more hipster than NYC i-bankers. The NYC types have a certain… greasier/cigar chomping feel whereas the SF banking type have a bit more suave/metroish/gay feel) I was sporting in my EMS-blue cargo pants (cool reflective tape, zillions of pockets filled with trauma sheers, etc), big ass braided black leather belt with mag light holster, giant tactical combat EMS boots, sports bra, white undershirt and mirrored aviator shades. I’d just gotten off my 36-hour shift and was feeling a tad badass. Hands on my hips, I pivoted around and looked them up and down. The teensiest bit of a smirk curled up as I allowed myself to revel in minor glee at the thought, “I am so happy to be free of working with the likes of you morons anymore.” Damn it feels good not to be a banker!!