Monday, January 23, 2012

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Recently, during a morning shift on a Sunday, my assistant boss pulled me off the floor. We weren't exactly overstaffed, so I found it odd she needed to talk to me right then and there.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

I stared at her as though I could suss out her meaning through eye contact alone. That didn't really work, so after what was either a few seconds or an uncomfortably larger amount of seconds I supplied: "What?"

"You're looking pretty low. You look--like you'd rather be anywhere but here."

She radiated concern. Not for the business, and not because I'd been rude to a customer or anything, but because when I wasn't "on" serving coffee I was clearly exhausted and miserable. This provoked two reactions on my part:

a) Touched. My previous location became a daily grind so misery-inducing I often stared into the mirror and wondered, out loud, if I could make it into work that day. This fact was as apparent to my former manager as a forest fire is to the trees, and yet he never commented once. As long as I was upright, sober, and not audibly cursing, I'm fairly convinced he couldn't give less of a damn. And now here we are: I haven't been at this location more than two months and already my assistant boss can tell when I'm unhappy on the job, and it actually worries her.

b) Annoyed. It's Sunday morning. I want to choke out every well-rested smiling coffee swiller that comes through my door and makes me navigate through my fog of fatigue long enough to pretend I'm interested in their coffee, long enough to find which stupid button I have to press to ring up their stupid warmed butter croissant, and now you're telling me I can't even drop the facade once they leave?!

Somewhere in the past year of getting home every night past 1 AM I broke my sleeping schedule. Never had a very solid one to begin with, but now every morning shift is an insult, every night I need to go to sleep before 1 AM is an Everest I must climb. An Everest filled with kittens...kittens covered in spikes.

But I know in my heart of hearts that option A is the right one. And after talking with her for a few minutes--admitting my sleeping schedule's about as reliable as the Grecian economy, making sure I wasn't screwing over my coworkers--I returned to the floor and felt awake. Enthusiastic, even. No more anger, no more bitchiness barely restrained, just the pleasant knowledge that my bosses, if you'll pardon my Mandarin, actually give a 狗屎.

That...that's not in China, Jess. I've been close enough to high-five that dinosaur, you can't fool me with clever text bubbles. You didn't even try to hide the Field Museum logo!

...oh, Sue, I can't stay mad at you.
I can't say much about these ladies, other than how utterly badass they must be. I mean, the drawing is awesome, but only sort of does their badassocity justice. Giant freaking shears! Steel spikes! IRONS THE SIZE OF GIANT MECHA ROOMS!

I won't claim I'd give anything to work there, because I value my health insurance and I'm pretty sure they don't get free coffee. But my job, and pretty much any job, could benefit from the introduction of RAZOR SHARP CLEAVERS THE SIZE OF FREAKING FRANCE, YOU GUYS.

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