So, being a broadcaster is the 10th worst job in the world . . . at least according to Careercast.com. And a print reporter is even worse?
Hell, any rookie in the newsroom could have told you that.
What other job lets you travel to exotic ghettos, dodge morphing phlegm flung from the gaping piehole of a pedophile, or profile errant turds floating through your local sewage pant?
Who really wants to rub elbows with the gasbags and bureaucrats? Quiz Joe Dirt on the finer points of monetary policy? Or huddle around a burning garbage can while a Pookie and Ray-Ray wax thuggery?
Why would anyone run headlong into a hurricane with only a two-dollar windbreaker and a bag of Funyuns? Suck generator fumes for days on end to bring Joe Six-Pack the thrilling details of traffic court? Or chase happenstance down a switchback road just to see where it leads?
Did you really rack up all those college loans to earn less that that pimple-faced kid flipping your burger? To qualify for foodstamps? To work nights, weekends, and every holiday? Even the made-up ones?
Who wants to cram a 12 hour day into 8 hours because of an overtime moratorium? Sweat through your best boxers before 9am? Explain the nuances of a 10-minute lunch to that Ken Doll anchor? Or dash from crime scene to deadline in high heals or a power tie every hour on the 4’s?
True, if career satisfaction were measured in work environment, stress levels, physical demands, or hiring outlook, this job would send the suckmeter into the red. But the journalists I know don’t do this job for the glamor, the money, or the facetime. We do it for the places we go, the people we meet, and the stories we get to tell.
The hours suck. The pay is lousy. The stress, at times, unbelievable. But none of that matters when the story hits the air. Because the only real measure of job satisfaction is that feeling you get when you know you knocked it out of the park and you get to do it all over again tomorrow.