I am not one to complain about my dayjob. All things considered, i have it good.
But i have lost at least a few years, a few hairs and possibly even a tiny piece of my soul during the demolition and reconstruction of this 7,400 sq. foot building of mine. Of ours, I should say. (Remember my brother Mark, from the how to get shit lucky in Roulette 101 post? He's my partner in crime)
Demolition always seems to start innocently enough. You take a sledge hammer to an otherwise perfectly fine wall, admire the hole and feel good about yourself. Even the fine dust that rises from the hole doesn't bother you in the moment. Only problem is you will repeat that action about a thousand more times, each time a little differently. Sometimes you rip. Sometimes you cut. And things eventually get more complicated because former pharmaceutical buildings are built like tanks. It's not so much the repetition that ultimately gets to you but the combination of dust and strange chemicals that seem to cling to your eyes, hair and lungs. So when you do find yourself submitting to the old gas mask first thing in the morning, you know you are officially in the shit.
Which is precisely why I refused to put on the mask today. The sound of the grinder and the sight of giant ventilation ducts dangling precariously by one or two metal rods may have looked hauntingly familiar, but the context is almost entirely different.
This is no longer the first day of my next six months.
Just a simple two-day project.
Easy, breezy.
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