When my alarm went off at the (to me, anyway) alarming hour of 6 am, I may have muttered an obscenity.  I often do on Fridays.  For Friday is the day I work at my Hated Job (as opposed to the one I like, that has GSS as a co-worker).  I get up, make coffee, start my sausages, and get dressed.  I have a shirt that I have to wear at the Hated Job, which of course, is stylistically repugnant to me (but I suppose much better than getting stuff on my own shirts), and I pack a shirt to change into after work.  Because I go to class after work.

I have a test today, and I have been studying for it (though I took a “Daily Show” break last night), so I was up a bit later than usual.  Still, I had a moment of clarity (I won’t call it an epiphany, as I was not on, or waiting for, public transportation).  I eat the same thing for breakfast every day:  two sausages (sage-flavored), a bowl of instant oatmeal (with flax seeds) and a jumbo cup of coffee (organic, with 1% milk).  This isn’t really surprising – things like sausages come in packs designed to last you the work week; quite frankly, I am not up to the intellectual rigor that is deciding what to eat (I have issues deciding what to wear, and that comes after the consumption of coffee).  But yes, like most of the Western World, my life has much of a sameness:  get up, go to work/school, come home, sleep.  The French have a little rhyme for it:  Metro, bulot, dodo (commute, work, sleep).  Which goes to show you – you make a series of decisions, and you still end up in a routine – the decisions determine the little details (though, let’s face it, the details separate a tolerable existence from one where you, for example, fantasize that the building in which you work has burned down during the night).  I suppose that’s why we put so much stock in the little joys of life – a favorite TV show, a crush on a coworker, and extra bag of chips dispensed from the vending machine….

This morning, as I groggily went about my routine, I was reminded of Groundhog Day.  But it’s October, and not February.  So, we’ll go with Columbus Day, which I know, doesn’t have the same punch to it, and no cute animal associated with it.  But humor me, okay?


This really doesn’t go with the first part of the post, but I still have some residual disgust, and I want to get it off my chest.  Hated Job involves cleaning up after people.  And people, if you were not aware, are disgusting.  This is not news to anyone who has had a job in the service industry.  But, as I was scraping up an unknown wad of goo, human hair and leaves, it occurred to me that some things are only tolerable if you don’t give them too much thought.  So I tried desperately not to think about how the goo, human hair and leaves ended affixed to the carpeting.  Instead, I thought of a story from Puppy Mama’s (friend from girlhood and frequent commenter on this blog) repertoire.  I won’t go into it, but suffice it to say that it is one of the most disgusting workplace stories I have ever heard.  And I used to tend bar, so believe me, my threshold is pretty high.

Which, in case you’re interested, was not the best coping strategy.  It just made me think of all the other disgusting workplace stories I have either been directly involved in, or heard of.

It’s a miracle I’m not a full-on germophobe.