Donning my work cloths, I started to see subtle changes in my physiology. My neatly pressed khakis felt like they were made of sackcloth. Puffs of blue smoke rose from my torso were starch laden fabric touched my skin. Every step towards the door made another welt rise on my tushie. Surely this was nothing that Blue Star Ointment could cure.
The drive to work was even worse. Cold and rainy, the universe is telling you to go back home. Each swish of the windshield wipers brings another thought of undone tasks and office politics yet to be addressed. The fear of not being at work for a week to defend yourself from those that would throw you under the bus looms just over the horizon. Lightening cracked and angels weep all along your path.
Things got no better when stepping through the door. Everyone clambering, “How was your vacation?” Trying to live vicariously through your exploits and only rubbing salt in your tushie welt by remind you of a week of bliss. The jealous ones rush into the fray. “Oh you went there? I wish I could go out of town on my vacations.” Looking at you with contempt they turn to find another victim to guilt into submission.
Then the choruses of, “Did you ever look into this” or “what about that” begin to tune up. You politely answer with, I handed that off to so and so, and didn’t they take care of it last week?” The chorus bellows that they didn’t trust so and so to follow through with it. You’re day is shot and you haven’t been in the door 20 minutes.
Your boss is no better. He catches you up on what you’ve missed. Nothing of which is really relevant to what you have to get done today. You’ve made 12 different plans on how to precede with the rest of your day, all of which are changed in a flurry of, “Oh, by the ways.” The icing on the mud pie is when you ask your boss about some paper work you left for him before you went on liberty. He tells you that it’s on “your pile” on his desk. Confused, you remind him that you didn’t leave a pile of paperwork on his desk a week ago. Being the great leader his is, he clarifies his statement. “BK, that the pile of papers on the right corner of his desk is yours now.”
The prayers start at this point. You think of all the major and minor deities you’ve ever heard of. Feeling a fervor sweep you up, you start adding Saturday morning cartoon characters to the list. Buddha, Isis, Grape Ape, please hear me out. Hoping a single great old ones floating in the ether is listening to the mortal channel, you pray the prayer of the working stiff.