Labor of Love?

AA

Here's a snipet of an email I sent to AJ in one of our daily email convos:

"Masha Allah, bro.  Well put.  Alhamdullilah, we're lucky to have these fortunate positions.  Hand work is so much more tiring, dude, and completely exhausts you out.  Though I love labor-oriented jobs, man, to be honest.

I'd be the happiest guy if I was a carpenter.  I mean, working with your hands...seeing the day-to-day improvement on something.  Visibly seeing the work you put into something.  Man, that stuff is awesome to me.  And you can make a good living off of it, too.  I've always wanted to, on the side, do a business like that and then start my own full-time.  I know, gay or weird, but awesome.  Having that physical tiredness, to me, means that I've worked.  Really worked, ya know?

Not to downplay what we do.  You absolutely put it perfectly about being mentally tired...and that can impact the physical, no doubt.  And you do also get to see (whether immediate or long-term) your efforts manifested in one way or another.  But, I guess the thing is what you mentioned...to be thankful for the many, many things that we have.  :)  MashaAllah, habibi, well done."

That was the email. Could you imagine me in a social desi situation at, for example, a dinner amongst fellow professionals (let's say a CAMP dinner -- though I've never been to one)? Yes? Okay, fine. But I'm still gonna paint the picture for you here:

"So, what does everyone at this table do for a living," asks the social butterfly, Imran.

"I'm a doctor," answers Umar in a slightly modest, but 'I'm-the-man' tone.
"I'm a consultant. At Accenture," says the next five desis. In unison, too.
"I'm an auditor. At Deloitte," says the vibrant and dashing AJ.
"I'm an IT technician, network guru, and support desk associate," beams Ali in a fobbish accent, despite his childhood and adulthood rearing being here in Amreeka. I mean, America.

"And I'm a human resource manager," says the drop dead gorgeous desi girl (yes, just one girl at the table). "What do you do, Imran?" she inquires in a way that makes me think she wants me. She ends the question with a perfect smile.

"Who me? Oh, I'm a carpenter. I screw in nails all day and then screw over people by charging them extra." Of course, I'm laughing while saying that last line and everyone else does, too. But then I'm asked by the doctor (who else?), "No, seriously, Imran. What DO you do?"

"Umm. Seriously, I'm a carpenter," I whisper back in a sheepish voice. Of course, the network guru follows up with a loud "Vat? Vat did you say?" I briefly looked at Ms. Dead Drop Gorgeous Desi Girl and our eyes met. For about a fraction of a second, that is. Then she quickly turned her eye to the doctor and started smiling at him the way she had just smiled at me. The end (of the carpenter's chances of suviving the desi dunya).

Okay, so the above was a really long, elaborate--I think--way of me saying that telling a 'potential' girl or her family that you, an American-raised Pakistani having grown up with and attend the same schools as all the other professionals, ended up as a mere carpenter. Yeah, it doesn't fly well with you either, huh?

Thus, being a carpenter will remain a dream and a deep, 'dark' secret of mine. Which is now posted on the Internet for the world to see.

:)