It was 8 pm when I returned. The last six hours were akin to listening to a ranting relative during Thanksgiving dinner. Instead of having a delicious meal to distract me, I only acquire brain freeze and extra calories.

My good judgment decided against using my car, but it hadn’t counted on the rain worsening. So I’m left with an inside-out umbrella, waterlogged heels, and 80 percent of my body soaking wet.

The other employees ended their shifts earlier. The ones left with me were several janitors. I set my ‘report’ on the boss’s desk and went to the vending machine for dinner. Gaining an extra five pounds makes eating healthy this late a fool’s errand.

In typical Tuesday fashion, the last candy bar lodges in the machine. That’s a cue for a yell and hand grabbing to reach it for anyone who’s begun to have enough of everyone and everything. Swearing, I begin kicking it, moving out of the way when it tipped over. I slide to the floor, crying. Several janitors rush towards me. That was the last thing I remember before I blacked out.

Before I continue, let me remind you that I’m a proud workaholic. I tend to go to extremes in that respect. The first time I worked for Fickle, I was determined to live in my cubicle. However, Mr. Happy Sunshine boss won’t let me ‘waste my life away.’ He even once offered me a room in his apartment building. God knows the only thing worse than having an unlikable person at work is having them as your neighbor.

He constantly foils my ambitions, so I decide to work around him. This includes working at home by taking flash drives with me, coffee for every meal, and working 22 hours straight. This helps me perform my tasks without any interference. But, in hindsight, I realize this probably doesn’t work for anyone, even me.

I wake up two days later in the hospital, freaking out over who put me in a patient gown (I’m extremely prudish). Then, leaping out of the bed, I began feeling the sharp prick of a sedative needle, and everything goes black again.

The next time I woke up, I find my body strapped down. This time I don’t attempt to put up a fight. The doctor tells me that my body’s screaming for a break. Despite my pleas, they issue a mandatory vacation. My heart sinks as my boss agrees over the phone.

After a week in the hospital, I receive a plane ticket to the Mediterranean. In case I would rebel, my boss sent two large coworkers to assist me in packing and driving me to the airport. Sitting next to a crying toddler and their apathetic parents, I bang my head against the seat, waiting for the dreaded relaxation to begin.

Image by Susan Cipriano from Pixabay