I can scarcely believe it but I've spent the past 5 new years on a production floor.
I always told myself spending it at work would offer sanctuary from the dreaded triangle and kwitis and rebintador, plus I'd just be sleeping at home anyway, so I welcomed each year up on the 9th floor, starkly lit by fluorescent light.
Instead of booze and revelry and music, there was the tell-tale murmur of "How may I help you" spoken every now and then. There were no new year's kisses when the clock struck 12; we punched for break time instead. It was always headphones on my ears, in the first few years and then spreadsheets in the ones that followed.
And then there were fireworks.
I would sneak off to the windows and watch as the city lit up, slow and tentative at first, and then in earnest, as the minute-hands caught up with each other and the clocks chimed a new year for us all. It was a truly pretty sight and my reward for working. Took my breath away, even for just a minute. The view from the 9th floor was wonderful.
It was kind of worth it, in the end.
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