So here’s the deal. Most people believe Mondays are the worst day of the week. Perhaps en masse, the grey haze of another ending weekend sucks a mathematically larger group down into the abyss – but the depths they plumb, really, are fairly shallow. A short twenty-four hours later when Tuesday arrives, most bounce back like champs or Tigger, no worse for wear.
In reality, any HR representative will back me up on this, the worst day of the week for the worker bee is Friday.
Strategically, Fridays offer better cover for the corporate overlords to lay off, down-size, make redundant, or just plain fire their minions. After most of your compatriots have already exited the building (early lunch, golf game or they’ve put their 40 in already) you are summoned to your boss’s office where he and a representative from HR wait to give you the bad news. Since aforementioned coworkers are gone, there is no one to watch you box up your pictures, souvenirs and stray books – well except Clyde, the extra diligent security guard who watches your every move – making sure you don’t have a semi-automatic in your lower left hand drawer (with which you might want to inform your boss about your feelings on his impromptu performance review) and to keep you from filching any office supplies (i.e. your favorite stapler). Once this task is accomplished, Clyde escorts you to your car (making sure you don’t detour to tell someone, anyone sayonara) where he watches you drive off – no longer his problem.
You can guess what’s coming next.
Friday, October 13 (there should be a warning label printed on calendars for this day – or perhaps a funny ferret picture printed on it? You know, start your day out with a laugh? It’s bound to go sideways after that.) finds a nervous Ben standing on my doorstep asking weird questions. Like how is the heating and plumbing? Are the gutters clogged? Does the kitchen have a dishwasher? All strange questions since he hasn’t taken any interest in the cottage since I moved in twelve years ago.
Well, they were weird right up until he handed me my paycheck and a pink slip (which he actually printed up – see above – on pink paper because he thought that was the color it was actually supposed to be). The humdinger here? Could I be out of the cottage by the 31st? It would really help him out…Awesome.
I wonder if Clyde will help me lift my bookcases.
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