We spend a lot of time working at our place of employment. This past week I feel like I’ve spent 80 hours working what is supposed to take about 37 1/2. A holiday weekend doesn’t help matters, but any cubicle dweller knows the feeling of cramming an extra day of work into a four-day week.
The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) says that men worked about an hour more than women in the workplace in 2009. I don’t know how they figured that out, because it seems men dole out many responsibilities to women on the job. Maybe doling counts.
My job includes meeting the demands of several people at once while I am only endowed with two arms. I’ve learned to juggle file folders with my feet and mentally shut down any hunger pangs until I’m within five feet of a vending machine.
They really needed me at work this week, because like a fool I didn’t put in for vacation, so the others grabbed the chance to bail for the beach while they had the opportunity to escape. Strangely, on Tuesday (the day after our and many other business’ holiday closure), things were calm. Wednesday everybody apparently came to life (or used Tuesday to recover from the three-day weekend) and business overflowed. I was bombarded from three or four people at once, all wanting something that was due, overdue or just needed yesterday. And they all needed me to give them my attention.
It was comforting to know that, elsewhere in cubicle land, another person was cramming 80 hours into a four-day week. They also called me toward the end of the week for feedback.
The only thing worse than the four-day week is the week before and after a week’s vacation. I put in for one, like a fool, knowing I’ll have to deal with cramming 75 hours into two weeks book-ending the down time. At least there is no holiday coming up that could make it worse.
I keep saying I’ll never take vacation again. Why do I do this to myself?
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