Enlightenment about "being overly particular": Those trivial matters that one has been clinging to suddenly seem less burdensome
I used to be always eager to argue with others. For example, my colleagues on the production line thought I was too strict with quality inspection and said, "It's okay to be just about right." I would then spend half an hour arguing, saying, "If defective products are sent out, we have to compensate the customers." Another example is that when the team leader changed two lines of my sampling records, I would chase after him to the office for an explanation, emphasizing that "data cannot be changed randomly." Even when the canteen chef gave an extra half - ladle of meat to someone else, I would ask, "Why?"It wasn't until last Wednesday that I argued with the mechanic about "whether the abnormal noise of the machine was caused by the bearing." The argument lasted until the end of work. However, the machine still made the same noise the next day, and the production progress wasn't affected. But I missed the hot water in the dormitory because I got off work late. That night, I sat on the steps of the dormitory, smoking. The wind blew the smoke into my eyes, and suddenly I understood: The so - called "principles" I argued for didn't really matter in the operation of the factory. The machine wouldn't stop making noise just because I won the argument, my colleagues wouldn't become more serious just because I convinced them, and the amount of meat in the canteen would still be the same. It turned out that being "overly particular" wasn't about adhering to principles; it was a shackle I put on myself, binding my energy and my mood.
Current state: Turn the switch of the "opening" to the minimum setting. "Full-time quality inspection" is just a fig leaf
I started trying my best not to talk. During the morning shift handover, when my colleague complained, "I have to work overtime again", in the past I would respond, "I also worked overtime yesterday", but now I just nod and offer a cigarette. At lunch, when someone said, "I heard the salary is going to be raised", in the past I would lean over and ask, "Really or not?", but now I just keep eating without even raising my ears. Even when the supervisor talked to me and asked, "How are you doing recently?", I only said, "Not bad" – I even thought it was a waste of effort to say one more word.
As for "working as a full-time quality inspector", it's just something I tell myself to deceive myself. When the factory is rushing to fulfill orders, I have to go to the production line to move cartons; when there is a shortage of people for inventory taking in the warehouse, I have to count the goods; even when the cleaner asks for leave, I have to help sweep the dust in the workshop. Last week, I asked the supervisor, "Can you let me focus on quality inspection?" The supervisor patted me on the shoulder and said, "Everyone is like a brick, and should be moved wherever needed." ——Staring at the oil stain on his cuff, I suddenly understood: The so-called "full-time" is just a decent excuse I made for "doing odd jobs", just like a shabby sweater worn in winter. It looks okay, but actually lets in the wind.
The appearance of daily life: factory - canteen - dormitory, like a machine with a pre - set program
My life has turned into three lines: At 7 a.m., the iron gate of the factory creaks open. I wrap myself in the work uniform and go in. Immediately, the noise of the machines engulfs my ears. At 12 o'clock, the clattering sound of stainless - steel dinner plates in the canteen rings out on time. I carry my plate and look for a corner seat. The dishes are always overcooked cabbages and hard rice. Occasionally, there is a piece of fatty meat, which I have to pick out and hide under the plate. At 22 o'clock, the curtain of the dormitory sways twice in the wind. I climb onto the upper bunk. The snoring from the next bed has already started. The fan creaks and slowly blows away the daytime heat.
Yesterday, on my way to the canteen, I met the stray cat that always stays at the entrance of the guardroom. It was still curled up in the cardboard box with its tail coiled into a furry ball. I squatted down and stroked its head. Suddenly, I remembered that it was in this very spot last month, with the same cat and the same sunlight. It turns out that days are not "lived" but "copied". Today is the same as yesterday, and tomorrow will be the same as today. Even the stray cat's posture remains unchanged.
Final conclusion: My changes have crashed into the wall of "unchangeability"
I thought I had figured things out and life would be different. For example, if I stopped being so nit - picky, I'd feel better; if I talked less, there'd be fewer conflicts; if I focused on quality inspection, my work would go more smoothly. But in fact, it's not the case. The machines still make the same noise, my colleagues still complain that I'm too strict, there's still little meat in the canteen, and even the stray cats still huddle in the cardboard boxes as before.
I've tried to make changes. For example, I wanted to adjust the sampling time to avoid the peak hours of the production line, but the supervisor said, "Just do it as before." Another example is that I told the canteen cook to "cook the vegetables softer", and the cook replied, "We need to cater to the majority." I even wrote a proposal to optimize the quality inspection process for the factory director, but it was taken away by the security guard as waste newspaper. It turns out that it's not that I didn't work hard enough. All my "changes" have hit the wall of "unchangeability". The factory has its own rules, and life has its own inertia. It's like I threw a small stone into the lake, not even causing a ripple.
Now I finally admit that it's not that if my way of thinking changes, my days will change. Days have their own rhythm. Whether I'm being serious or silent, working full-time or doing odd jobs, they go on step by step, just like the machines in a factory, never slowing down for anyone.
And I'm just a screw on this machine: if it rusts, just replace it; if it's loose, just tighten it — as for whether I want to turn or not, it doesn't matter.