bitterdiva

Decisions, decisions, decisions

For the past two week I’ve been feeling like Mr. Hankey, something I relate to a mixture of nutritional deficiency and hormonal imbalance. I’ve got more funk than George Clinton, physical, emotional, and mental. Waking up in the morning is a greater chore than cleaning the bathtub (and I practically clean the tub daily). The alarm goes off blaring in my ear, I wake up, haul my upper body with one arm and hit Hello Kitty to allow a mere 9 minutes more of sleep. (As a side note, those looking to bitchslap Hello Kitty should get her alarm clock; you might take joy hitting that pussy every 9 minutes each morning.) And those are the mornings that I sleep in my own comfy bed. The evenings that I switch into Kris’s room, I have him hitting his alarm and Poopoos yowling for pets in the morning. Nothing says wake up than a persistent high-pitched crying cat nuzzling his head against your arm.

I lie in bed with the unfulfilled hope that some calamity occurred during the early hours that would prevent my appearance at work. Understand that my job isn’t necessarily boring, tedious, or full of horrible people - it’s just that I am full of indifference for it. Sub par income, outstanding bills, lack of movement among the ranks combine to create a cycle of angst. One simply can’t move on up to the east side if the west side’s got a sister down on her juju. But there’s never a calamity, never a definitive clause that deliberately justifies my absence, it’s always some bloody excuse I create to haul my ass out of the comforts of a soft bed and throw myself into the shower to complete the awakening process.

In these two weeks, I’ve had food poisoning, feminine troubles, backaches, headaches, and a sore throat but the necessity of getting workshop documents ready, two mailings out, and a meeting with the financial goblin required my presence. On the past two Tuesdays I almost let my sickness and indifference get the best of me and set my mind into calling in or going home early. Randall’s belief in “title dictates behavior” goes to the core of my work experience though I should probably take his advice and just stay the hell home. Perhaps playing truant negates hatred towards one’s profession. Calling into work has its benefits, it shortens the tiresome workweek and it enables you to sleep and rejuvenate the mind, body, and spirit. I firmly believe that sometimes, mental illness is just as valid as a 104 temperature. Who really wants a pissed off coworker pounding on their desk with a barrage of expletives tainting the quiet atmosphere that’s occasionally littered with the sounds of paperwork and typing?

My PSA of the day is this: Don’t feel like going to work, then don’t. Your ill feelings, regardless of what aspect of the psyche that’s down in the dumps, are only going to hinder accomplishment. Lounging in one’s pajamas drinking long island ice teas and eating enormous bowls of ice cream whilst watching Jerry Springer makes you no less of a person than the pimply-faced kid smoking a doob behind the fry-a-lator at McDonalds. Or does it, after all he can schmoke and cook your French fries which you might possibly eat if you stay home from work.

On another note, my coworker firmly believes in Randall's philosophy because the two Tuesday's that I contemplated calling in, she did it herself. I guess I should admire a girl with the testicular fortitude to do the thing that I can't seem to bring myself around to doing. At least I'm queen of the department today, if that's any consolation prize.

12:40 PM

Comments

Posted by: mersidotes at July 22, 2003 01:24 PM

Posted by: bitterdiva at July 22, 2003 01:34 PM

Posted by: texasyankee at July 22, 2003 06:28 PM

Posted by: Groundzero at July 23, 2003 10:31 AM

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