Re-entry into the land of paid labor is proving difficult. I just cannot get my transmission in gear. Given that I have a 70 hour work-week, this is proving to be problematic.
At Job #1 we have an employee perk that is not mentioned in the employee manual, but which is generally accepted as standard practice. Vacation Head is that state of being wherein one returns from vacation not worth a shit. This state is not questioned. In fact, said perk allows the employee either 3 or 7 days of merely showing up and only dealing with those matters that are on fire. The four day discrepancy is explained by the fact that in the Executive Director’s absence, we took a vote and agreed on 7 days. I believe we’re operating on a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. As long as we look like we’re doing something, 7 days is usual and customary.
At Job #1, I have shown up. I have showed off birthday presents and photos. I’ve told stories. I’ve gone through email, dealt with a couple server emergencies and orchestrated a solution to a web page boondoggle. Other than that, I’ve spent my time re-adjusting to being in the office 8 hours a day,
Job #2, on the surface, is neither physically nor mentally taxing. However, 30 hours tacked on top of 40 is both physically and mentally brutal. And it’s even more so in Vacation Head state.
I had a brilliant vacation. Vacation Head is especially bad this go around. I ate roughly every 12 minutes (and exceptionally good food). I slept whenever I wanted to for as long as I wanted to. I engaged in carnal relations. I read 3 novels. And I was the grateful recipient of several spa treatments (massage, sugar scrub, aromatherapy bath, and a wonderful thing called a swim spa). I drank champagne, ate decadent chocolate, and enjoyed spectacular views.
Even more pleasurable was the company of good friends and family members for the birthday house party.
It’s been a week since the carriage turned back into a pumpkin and real life asserted itself.
I am still not worth a shit to my employers.
I think I’m angry that vacation can’t go on and on and on.
Today, I have forced myself to deal with some housekeeping. In doing so, I found the tiara that (long story) my mother wore during my surprise birthday party. There it sits on my scarred and cluttered kitchen table. I fondled the glittery headpiece with a sense of deep envy.
If I were, in fact, a figure-head queen, I would never have Vacation Head because I would always be on vacation. It’s true that I am genetically predisposed to be one of the idle rich. Something has gone very wrong.
I am girding my loins for the next 8-hour shift. My head hurts thinking about it. The scab from the trip-over-the-computer-cord-banging-head-on-sewing-machine-and-splattering-blood-and-hot-coffee-all-over-me-and-the-wall is not helping matters. My hair is embedded in the scab resulting in a pulling sensation occasionally punctuated by sharp pains. The headache behind my left eye has been around so long now that I’m tempted to name it. Right now, Horace is leading over Hector and Hermione.
I’m tempted to wear the tiara to work, but the scab makes that impossible. There’s a Great Truth buried in that, but the headache is too fierce for me to puzzle it out.
Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to work I work go. On the way, I’m buying aspirin and a lottery ticket.
[Apologies for the photo quality. I get madder and madder at that lowlife who stole my camera.]