chocolate-dipped monday

30 Apr

This morning I woke up early and imagined coming home after work, glad the day was done, and this thought motivated me to get dressed and head back into the office for another long Monday. When my bed is so comfortable, it is difficult to imagine this one day as Hardly A Thing, as I will two years from now when I’m reflecting on my time at the dealership when I was so young and knew so little of hardship and responsibility. But I try. Because I can’t reach that point until I complete the lower levels, this year, this month, this Monday the thirtieth of April. Time is weird that way.
Last week, one of my coworkers was delivered a gift from her husband through Edible Arrangements. A twenty-five dollar box of chocolate-dipped apples and strawberries. Three Thanksgivings ago, I was in the cold white kitchen of Edible Arrangements, washing fruit, cutting them with a giant machine or a small knife, skewering them, and arranging them neatly around a block of Styrofoam and kale, according to a picture stuck on the wall a little too far for me to see without the glasses I’d be prescribed nine months later. I was a temporary hire for the Thanksgiving holiday and the two days leading up to it, but it felt like longer, because even then, work made me very sad. I imagined a career that enabled me to be paid for doing something that I felt guilty to call work. Because it was fun. And it made me happy. I always thought I’d avoid office work, but there I was, accepting a chocolate-dipped apple slice from a coworker in an office with six computers, a Xerox machine, and a locked box filled with confidential information and papers that will be emptied into the back of a truck that shreds it better and faster than any regular shredder. The people I work with are nice, and I like them. But I will leave. And I can appreciate them more from my studio at home where I write and draw things for money.


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