memories of work

Nothing over the transom this morning.  I've got a busy day ahead of me, doing the laundry, the farmer's market this morning, and the Newberry Library book fair this afternoon.  Normally a retired person's busy day is when they have to do two things that require getting off their butt in the same day, but here I have three.  Altogether they amount to less than four hours.  I used to work eight hours a day and still had time to do the laundry, peruse the tomatoes at the farmer's market, and if the fair was going on I could drop by there in the evening and come home with a sackful of cheap good reads.

There were Saturdays and Sundays, but they were kind of part of the week, usually you had things scheduled then, and Sunday, I don't know, it bloomed so nicely in the morning, but by mid afternoon the gloom of the workweek had overcome the day. 

I didn't really have a nine to five job until I was forty years old.  At first it seemed daunting, the regimentation, those five solid blocks of eight hours.  But then I learned there were holidays, in my case, working for the state, there were like ten of them.  Columbus day, Casimir Pulaski Day, so cool.  Then there were vacation days.  I never did like two consecutive weeks, too precious to drink them all down like that, much better to sip at them a few days here, a single day there. 

And then there were sick days.  Some people were sanctimonious about them, but I abused them right from the start, I mean there they are ripe for the taking, who could resist?  Not me.  I would get up in the morning, select a time when the boss probably wouldn't be in,.put a cough in my throat and a whine in my voice, generally my ailment was stomach troubles because nobody is going to ask you for details on that. 

The coworker who answered the phone was in on the scam, they knew I would and did do the same for them, would put a little sympathy in their voice, mutter you get better now you hear, hang up the phone and announce that Ken wouldn't be coming in today.  Probably the reply was "Who gives a shit?" but I didn't care, I was free, free as a bird, a day to do anything or nothing if I wanted.

They are a dime a dozen now in retirement, I don't get that special thrill anymore.  I miss the thrill of quitting time on Friday, but for some reason I still get the Sunday blues.