Fumbling Towards Relaxation

A lost love envelops me, personified in a dark-haired beauty with almond shaped eyes. No complications or messy communication.  

Just pure love. Rapture. Joy.  

She takes my hand, but I’m hesitant. Something is calling me, something that has to be dealt with before I can give myself to bliss. It’s getting louder, and the sound more and more offensive. The siren slips out of my grasp, and I’m left confused, with only myself, disappointment, and a grating sound that refuses to pass.  

Fuck. It’s the alarm, and no, I’m not even close to finding love. Yet the pre-dawn hours of Monday morning have sure as hell found me. The devil on my shoulder has already had coffee and is hard at work trying to convince me to take the day off. The angel seems to have hit her snooze button.  

At this point, finding the bathroom without stubbing my toe or tripping over what seem like 17 cats is a win. I haven’t had a drink in over a year, but I feel hungover in these unforgiving hours. It has been said that you are always your mother’s child, no matter how old you are. That point is exacerbated for me, as I still live at home. Hey, the rental market is brutal. 

Why am I a hamster in a wheel? What does it all mean? What is my purpose in life? Why do my questions sound like an antidepressant commercial?  

I get that we all feel it and deal with it, but on this particular morning, I seem to be turning my blues into an existential crisis.  

To hell with it—I'm calling in sick. I deserve a mental health day, no? I’m 46, and I am entitled to a personal day. Right. Yes, yes I am.  

Do I? I mean, how many people push through when they get the workday doldrums? Tons!  

“You’re being weak by missing work. Think of how your team needs you! Do you think your father would miss a day? And what will your hard-working friends think?” 

STOP! 

I’m taking the damn day off. If I don’t quit with the moral tug of war, my would-be shift will be over by the time I come to a decision with which I’m comfortable. Self care and mental health awareness are more than just pop psychology buzz words—the populace is coming around, and I need to take advantage. Burnout prevention, I like to call it.  

Calling out of a shift is a multistep process at VitaWorld. There is an automated system to navigate through, and if you’re not familiar, it can be more complex than the ingredients label on the vitamins my employer sells. Once I wade through the options, I leave the required voicemail. I’m surprised by how weak my voice sounds; this bodes well for the ‘having a cold’ ruse.  

Once this part is out of the way, it is time for a smoke break. I trudge three flights downstairs in my sweatpants and 1980 Van Halen tour shirt. The menthol and nicotine hit just right—I now have the confidence to text my boss.  

There’s a trick to this. I pick an ailment that definitely keeps me out of commission, but one that doesn’t necessarily warrant a doctor’s visit. Migraines and stomach issues are personal favorites. I opt for the latter. If Omar, my boss, presses me I can go into details about eating some bad pork and how the bowel movements are specifically, well, moving. In my 32 years of gainful employment, this has always worked.  

Once this is done, I’m not in the clear. I still need to leave a note for mom, letting her know I’m not oversleeping. What’s the point in calling out of work if you can’t go back to sleep indefinitely due to an overly worried parent?  

Now that I have successfully traipsed through the procedure, I should feel great. But worry finds me, like a boss who corners you to work overtime. The old fears from my childhood come back.  

“Should I have powered through? How many hoops do I need to jump through to sell this sickness? Is mom or my neighbor going to think less of me for playing hooky? Are the people who are showing up today going to be mad at me? Am I lazy?” 

And on and on. I choose to repeat some cognitive behavioral therapy bromides to remind myself that calling out of work can be a form of self care. Sleep finally arrives, but in a Pyrrhic sort of way. Like a beautiful woman that reluctantly gives in and goes out with you out of pity.  

I wake up a few hours later, in the middle of the morning. I’m not well rested. Omar has responded to my text: “okay.” 

Fuck me. No emoji or tone at all. I’m left to wonder if I’m going to be chided when I return to work. On the home front, I regret being honest with my mom. My reassurances of everything being OK are met with skeptical glares. Before I know it, it’s the middle of the afternoon and my would-be work day is all but over.  

And I have nothing to show for it. More trepidation and regret wash over me, as I find that I miss the feeling of accomplishment that a full day’s worth of work provides. I have done precisely nothing all day, other than go for a walk in the annoyingly balmy November weather.  

Days like today remind me why I have always harbored a fear of skipping a day. The half hour or so of pleasure that I get from staying in my pajamas evaporates as quickly as the morning dew outside. Anxiety takes over, and at the end of the day, I’m exhausted from all of the self-inflicted stress.  

As I peruse random Wikipedia pages before bed, I find that I am looking forward to going back to work the following morning. Assuming, of course, that I’m not fired. From being a third grader to a third shifter, I suppose my temperament will never allow me to unwind properly on these types of days.  

I’m no Bueller; I’m Cameron all the way.  

It doesn’t mean that it won’t happen again—at the nursing home I’ll probably fake a heart attack to get out of mandatory bingo nights. And then I’ll have a real one as I worry if I did the right thing.  

After my blue light binge with Wikipedia is complete, I hit the lights and close my eyes. From Def Leppard to D-day, my mind races with all of the random information that the letter D had to offer. I slowly drift to sleep, wondering if my fair and buxom brunette will pay me a visit this evening.  

She takes my hand, and leads me to an open meadow. She is trying to tell me something. She rings a bell, and while her lips are moving, I can’t hear her over the din of the-- 

I wake to realize I’ve set my alarm to p.m. instead of a.m. The entire day has been a comedy of errors. For now, the fear of missing a day wins, and I fall back asleep oddly relieved to get back to the grind the following day. Rational or not, some childhood apprehension never completely goes away.  

And maybe that’s a good thing.