Survival First: Why I Don’t Count Every Chicken Piece At Work.
Okay, here’s my dirty little secret, something that weighs on me but also feels like a tiny act of rebellion. I work at a popular fried chicken outlet in a bustling metro city. During peak hours, it’s absolute chaos – orders flying, cashiers yelling, customers impatiently tapping their feet. My job involves packing those crispy chicken combos, the ones that promise a specific number of pieces.
But here’s my confession: I don’t count them. Not always, anyway. Especially when the queue is snaking out the door and the heat from the fryers is making my head spin. My salary… it’s just not enough. It barely covers rent for my shared room, let alone sending some money back home to my parents or saving for my younger sister's education. This isn’t my only job; I pull double shifts here, then head straight to two other odd jobs – tutoring, delivery runs – just to scrape by.
By the time I’m back at this counter, my mind is as fried as the chicken itself. Counting each tiny piece during a frantic rush feels like an insult to my exhaustion, to the sheer grit it takes to stand on my feet for 12 hours, smile at demanding customers, and then do it all over again. People often look down on 'fast-food jobs,' assuming a lack of ambition. They don't see the struggle, the dreams, the sacrifices.
So, if you ever get an extra piece, or maybe one less, consider it a lucky dip. We always have plenty of chicken in the fryers anyway. My priority isn’t exact counts; it’s getting through the day, ensuring my family has food on their table, and maybe, just maybe, catching a few hours of sleep. My worth isn't tied to meticulously counting chicken. It’s tied to survival. And honestly? I refuse to feel guilty about it.
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