Factory Girl

Normally if you see me typing such a title you’d expect something on Andy Warhol. His Factory years are a fascination of mine.

No, this time the Factory Girl is me…and instead of the Chelsea Hotel I’m haunting the factory floor of an automotive parts company. This past week I had two days of classroom training and three days of the care and feeding of the welding robot at booth 25. Just for grins, in my writers head, I called him Clive.

I ‘fed’ him a series of parts and he welded them together in a series of steps. My goal was to fill large metal bins with two layers of 72 finished goods each. I liked it well enough except a part of the movements had me bending at the waist at a 45 degree angle. Three days straight of the repetitive muscle moves and I was ready to scream at the end of it. I got good at stretching after the first day.

Really good.

I’ll feel better after my first paycheck I think. Something to show for the physical exertion. That and the eight hour shifts must qualify for some sort of exercise with the muscle fatigue it brings on….if this is a way that I can keep up with getting in shape, catch up on bills and save for the plastic surgery to get me out of this too big skin suit before I’m 80 — then I’m in.

And Clive and me, I think we have a children’s story in us somewhere. My godson’s dad works in management here but he began on the floor like I am…..he’s 5 and there’s a little brother on the way. Maybe something entitled ‘Daddy at the Dragon Factory’ and have Clive and Co be dragons putting together flying machines or something.