It is a Wednesday, but in essence, a Friday. Late tonight I will board a plane, doze off with the help of an in-flight cocktail, and wake up in the Caribbean; my first formal paid vacation in my seedling of a career! As is to be expected, this pseudo-Friday's creep of the clock has been nothing short of agonizing. Several of my cubicle co-dwellers are out today, and the only sounds are the occasional laugh from the direction of upper management (laughter isn't allowed among us peons) and the droning hum of the towering servers in the closet behind me.
My workload for the day is more scant than a Vegas showgirl's wardrobe, so I've been splitting my time between Mahjong, research on travel and trying to look busy spackling and painting dinged up office walls; yes, my desk job has turned into a building maintenance job. When I returned to my desk from my painting adventures (let me tell you I'm no Picasso) I received the email that my supervisor had left for the day, citing a cold and need of sleep. I couldn't help but feel the slight tingle of freedom run up my spine; and then I wondered, when did it become that cubicle life became synonymous with living under tyranny? And how long is it going to take before my fellow 9-5ers and I stage the rebellion we so desperately need?
Ah but then we'd all be lost, for what would we covet if the sacred Paid Vacation was no longer held just a few hours out of reach on a Wednesday that breathes like a Friday?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment