Monday Fog

There's nothing like a long weekend to charge the soul and rejuvenate the spirit. There's nothing like a Monday to bring the soaring down to Earth. To quote Cypress Hill, ”It's a fun job, but it's still a job.”

Of course, it was raining when I woke up, and of course my first meeting of the day was at 10 AM in our second facility, and of course I had two mail bins worth of merchandise to lug over to our photo studio. The meeting went well though, revisions minor and easily dealt with. My next meeting fell during my lunch hour, because it was supposed to happen a week ago. Between vacations and delays with certain team members, it was pushed back to the next available time. That meeting went well also, but the amount of things I had to keep track of were growing.

When I got back to my desk, I found an e-mail with extensive changes from someone who had missed the earlier meeting. My phone was flashing and there was a note on my chair as well. It was crisis time, the time when I either shine and accomplish miracles, or break down into a blubbering heap in a small dark room in a corner of my brain where no one can see me. The voice mail was from someone in accounting, or accounts receivable, or some official sounding department that doesn't quite exist. The voice was familiar and seemed constantly on the verge of suppressing a laughing fit. I remember a time when those cracks wouldn't be audible, a few years ago when a steadier voice almost convinced me I'd be spending another night in the hospital, until I realized there was no fourth floor, which is where the caller claimed to be located.

It did remind me amid the confusion of catching up after a vacation that I had to hand in my benefit forms for next year. With that done, I grabbed a small piece of paper and made a checklist in priority order. I didn't get everything done before I went home, but I put some satisfying dents in my objectives. The real challenges weren't in my office; they were on the road ahead.

Rain gave way to mist, and as I navigated local shortcuts at a high altitude near water, that mist gave way to fog. As my headlights illuminated nothing but a billowing white and the occasional hint of pavement, I imagined strange tentacles and giant insects smashing into my windshield. Instead I got the glow of oncoming lights, and slowed down to let them pass. On a two-lane residential street with no shoulder, people often park anyway, forcing drivers to veer into the oncoming lane at times. That's hard enough through hills and curves with full visibility. I couldn't see more than a foot or two in front of me, so I was more likely to hit a parked car as one coming straight at me. At least the one coming at me had headlights blazing.

Once I reached lower altitudes, visibility improved, and I made it home without incident. I unwound with leftover turkey and stuffing, the best episode of Chuck ever, an intense penultimate chapter to Heroes' strike-truncated second season, and some good laughs from How I Met Your Mother. While I have another 30 years or so of work and television routines, my parents are finally embarking on adventures. My uncles convinced them to take a road trip to a casino, despite my dad's grumbling about developing an addiction and not having any interesting sights to see. He played it safe, and the money he lost was in the single digits. My eldest uncle, either through luck or years of experience, came back with thousands. My parents both agreed that with machines, screens, and lots bright lights, it was an environment I would have loved.

My parents worked hard their whole lives. They still work hard. I sometimes feel guilty when I'm away from home all day, knowing my dad is probably up on a ladder with a saw doing something dangerous. My mom and I were only gone for an hour for church on Sunday, and came home to find my dad in the middle of the street with a rake and a broom, because he was afraid “those damn kids might throw a match.” I'm glad that, for one rare day, they were out having fun while I was at work. As much as I love what I do, I never forget that I'm earning a future. When the fog lifts in three or four decades, I intend to enjoy the rewards of retirement. Of course, like my dad, I'll probably need friends or family to drag me out of my fog and into the light.

Hopefully, the light will be from a casino and not an oncoming car.