The sun is pouring its early morning rays on our sleepy little town as folks begin to wake up and plan their day of yardwork, washing the car, and gearing up for the afternoon barbeque with the neighbors. It’s Saturday morning, and for those of us who work in retail, it can only mean one thing: time to get your ass out of bed and off to work, you poor bastard.
The last time I had Saturdays off from work, cartoons were exclusively a Saturday morning thing and my teddy bear and I were watching them. The Rubik’s Cube was as new as a movie called E.T., and my parents were still together. These days, Wednesdays are my Saturdays, Tuesday night is my Friday night, and Sundays are fortunately, because I am after all the manager, still Sundays.
I've worked my share of Sundays, I’ll have you know, but after crawling my way through the barbed wire and gunk of the retail hierarchy for the past million years, I’ve earned the privilege of Sundays off, so for one day a week, I can pretend to be a normal working person with a real job and a real life. I sleep in and read the paper and take my time making breakfast. It’s extraordinarily cathartic. As far as those other things that real folks do with their Sundays, the landlord takes care of the yard, my car is too much a piece of shit to wash and you can’t polish a turd, and because I live in the poor part of town, my neighbors are too sketchy to invite over for grilling, and anyway, my George Foreman is only big enough for two.
The last time I had Saturdays off from work, cartoons were exclusively a Saturday morning thing and my teddy bear and I were watching them. The Rubik’s Cube was as new as a movie called E.T., and my parents were still together. These days, Wednesdays are my Saturdays, Tuesday night is my Friday night, and Sundays are fortunately, because I am after all the manager, still Sundays.
I've worked my share of Sundays, I’ll have you know, but after crawling my way through the barbed wire and gunk of the retail hierarchy for the past million years, I’ve earned the privilege of Sundays off, so for one day a week, I can pretend to be a normal working person with a real job and a real life. I sleep in and read the paper and take my time making breakfast. It’s extraordinarily cathartic. As far as those other things that real folks do with their Sundays, the landlord takes care of the yard, my car is too much a piece of shit to wash and you can’t polish a turd, and because I live in the poor part of town, my neighbors are too sketchy to invite over for grilling, and anyway, my George Foreman is only big enough for two.
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