And, of course, the general business slow-down which, last week, led my manager to say, “We don’t have much work coming in, so we’re reducing your hours to 3 days a week for the next couple months”… !
Okay, maybe not that last one.
On the one hand, four-day weekends are nothing to sniff at. I lurve me some four-day weekends.
On the other hand, though, the reduction of my paycheck by 25% has knocked me down to a level of poverty that vaguely resembles my financial conditions circa age 21 (when the only apartment I could afford was bordered on two sides by a couple of penis-exposing pervs).
After doing some simple math, (7 – 3 = 4), I’m unnerved to realize that the Days That I Work are now outnumbered by the Days That I Do Not Work. Which makes me feel like I ought to get a second, “but look how hard I’m trying!” job – you know, the ones that are usually reserved for ex-cons (see Morgan Freeman as a supermarket checkout boy in the Shawshank Redemption) or retired-but-still-sprightly seniors who enjoy the feeling of being “useful”. (See legions of grandparent-aged WalMart Greeters, employed exclusively to welcome the waddling, mega-store masses to their temple of eternal consumerism. No wonder suicide rates among the elderly are on the rise.)
I should have been a banker. Or maybe a prostitute.
P.S. Not that you owe me any favors, dear readers – the pleasure of your company is all I’ve ever wanted – but if, by any chance, you’re looking for a writer, don’t be shy about emailing me.