Look, I can own from the starting line that I am a wimp when it comes to being sick. That’s why I’m so proud of myself for bearing the Burn Ordeal so well. But the thing most men, all married men in fact I’m betting, save one or two with really mean, drunk wives, don’t understand is that having the stomach flu and working a 10 hour day after coming back from 24 hours of total stomach flu misery and then thinking of having to go to the store to buy those tomato soup and grilled cheese makings – the only thing that sounds even vaguely palatable and after a day of one donut and one orange section – that prospect just is, well, it just wants to make me cry.
See, these men (my bosses here in Corporania) all have wives at home. If their wives get sick they stop off and buy them their tomato soup, and maybe even make it for them. If they get sick their wives certainly make it for them. And really, I would have been happy if I could have just worked nine hours and had that little jump start that would have put me at the store and maybe even home before dark.
But no, see, there’s this directive that we all have to work 10 hours every single day. And there was a memo, and the memo stated quite clearly that no one could work less than that without permission from Himself. And really, truly, if the company hadn’t gotten itself in this position through very poor management, and if they would let us hire the people we’ve been saying we needed for the last two years, then everyone could work eight hours and all would be well. But it’s their fault. And the icing on the cake is that, in my department, we’re not behind. We never are. But we still have to work the overtime because upper management only looks at the numbers, and if our little three or four people (we’ve been short one for several months because they haven’t let us replace the one who quit, even though we interviewed) don’t do the overtime it pulls the overtime numbers stats down for the larger department.
OK, all that said. You get my bitchy drift. But the main point is, these managers are men. They don’t know what it’s like to be sick and have to fend for themselves totally. All I want to do is leave early so I can get to the store before dark and get a little rest for my fluey body before tomorrow comes and here I am again.
1 comment:
Oh, honey, I'm sorry that you're under the weather and the gun and that people who have things to take for granted take them for granted. I send you health and endurance. I send them some freaky empathy.
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