The Memory of a Job Gone By

For some reason, the memories of my jobs always take on a rosy sheen a couple years after I've left for a new place. Perhaps it's attributable to the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence phenomenon. Regardless, I've been fondly looking back on my days as a dry cleaner employee back in high school. The cleaners was quiet and it smelled good. My favorite part of the job was answering the phone and alphabetizing the order slips by the customer's last name.
There were several ex-cons working with me at the cleaners. I never felt worried about safety, though. My manager was majoring in criminal justice and interning as a corrections officer. She was especially competent at keeping everyone in line.
I left the cleaners for a high-paying job in telemarketing. I miss the days when I used to go home and not think about work. I did not obsess over other people's impressions of me, or how to get a good review. There were no reviews at the dry cleaners. Either you showed up to work on time and sorted clothes correctly, or you got fired. I miss knowing what is expected of me. In cubicle land, this is never directly communicated. Politics dictate the specifics of your progress more accurately than effort. This alone has led me to pine for the sweet smell of detergent and the days of sorting dirty clothes.