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On my way home from work Tuesday I checked in with my stepson to make plans to take him to the Thursday midnight showing of The Simpsons movie. As we discussed the details, it dawned on me that I, in fact, already had plans for Thursday evening – attending a concert with friends. I momentarily regretted the ticket purchase I had made earlier that day, then realized that the concert should be over around 11, leaving me time to pick up the kid and make it to the movies. Worse case, I left the show early. Internal sigh of relief, and all is well.

As I drifted off to sleep that night thinking about how I had to be up at 5:30 am to make it to work by 7, it dawned on me that I would do the same thing Thursday morning. And Friday morning. You know, the Friday morning that I would be getting home post-movie at 3am. Up for nearly 24 hours and then taking a brief nap before heading to work again. I was, as we say, “overcommitted”.

Thinking there was a Wednesday evening shift to babysit, Scott and I worked out a swap where I would work a long Tuesday in exchange for a short Friday. Problem solved. Until noon that day, when the other supervisor came in instead of being on vacation like we were thinking. Back to square one.

I’ve always been a bit of a workaholic, so long as the job is something I really enjoy. I don’t mind long hours, and in fact have “works 60 hours a week” on my list of ideal qualities in a man. [Leading a friend of mine to recently observe “So the perfect man is out there for you, but you’ll never meet him because you’re both at the office all the time.” My reply – “Unless I meet him at the one of the baseball games he goes to, because the perfect man enjoys those just as much if not more so than I. So clearly, we need to go to more games.” “Shit. Can’t you just change jobs every two weeks instead?”] But even then, I have my limits. I love sleep. I love settling down on my satin sheets underneath my silk bedspread, fluffing my four pillows, taking some pill, and drifting off to fucked-up dreamland. A two-hour nap in the course of 36 hours just wasn’t going to do it for me.

But I was prepared to suck it up, downing as much coffee, Pepsi, water, and Alamo Drafthouse Midnight Espresso chocolate shake as it would take to keep me awake. When 4pm rolled around, my energy level was zapped and I was trying to figure out a way to get in a brief pre-concert nap when the other department supervisor came by my desk and asked me if I was going to enjoy my three day weekend.

Wait, what?

“Yeah, since you worked my Saturday last week you’re off this Friday.”
“But my team is here tomorrow.”
“But I’ll be here.”
“But your team isn’t here tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but you’re already at 40 hours… if you worked tomorrow too you’d be at like 50 hours.”
[Here my immediate mental response was So? but then the sane part of my brain woke up and said SHUT IT]
“I don’t have to work tomorrow?”
“No, I’ll be here.”

A quick look at the calendar to verify that the carefully crafted plans I’ve made for the visiting blogger weekends in August and September are still not affected by the recent schedule swap and out the door I go.