Daddy, What Do You Do?

My children don't really have any idea what I do for a living. Sure, they see me leave the house in a uniform every day, but I doubt they could tell you what branch of the service I'm in, much less what my role in that service is. I like it this way. I like to keep my worlds separated. Compartmentalized. Once in a while they bleed over, but for the most part I try not to let one affect the other.
If they ever asked, I'd probably say my job is to make sure that people act like adults. I have a long list of regulations and instructions that define what an adult is supposed to do and not do in my world, some of which I had a hand in writing. My job is to make sure that everybody colors within the lines so we can accomplish whatever it is the organization is supposed to do, and then advise the boss about the most effective way to stomp on the ones that feel that rules are for everyone else. There's a lot of paperwork involved.
My predecessor told me that it would be two years before I stopped being scared of going to jail for something someone else did or I neglected to do. Twenty months later, I'm still terrified. Every day I learn of some new requirement I'm failing to meet from yet another agency I've never heard of. Ahhh, the joys of bureaucracy.
Apparently I was chosen for this position because I fit the profile. They needed a new giant douchebag, and immediately thought of me. I can live with that. It's stressful and tedious more often than it isn't, but it pays the bills and pays for new carbon. When I step back and take a look at the big picture, I can't complain.
Daddy is a giant douchebag at work and at play.
Probably better that they don't ask.


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