On this weekend eve I am conflicted. There is the obvious, inherent “goodness” that surrounds the end of the workweek. It doesn’t take a minimum wage job slinging hash at the local fast-frozen-and-fried joint to appreciate a Friday. My problem lies in what hazards lay in my path to the Fair Labor Standard’s promised land. I could put a name to this hazard, but I would violate one of my employer’s most sacred rules of employee conduct: “thou shall not discuss policy and procedures in a public forum.” (Blatant Irony intended)
Suffice it to say that I’m not looking forward to going to work tomorrow. The best thing I’ll be able to say tomorrow evening is that it’s no longer afternoon. The best thing I can say right now is that it’s not afternoon yet.