Life is full of unfair situations. Like how wine glasses don't magically refill themselves, or how women are allowed to wear make-up, or how people let Hugh Grant appear in films and the general public. As employed adults, this unfortunate truth is often reflected in our work schedules. Shockingly, most bosses don't take into account our numerous and lengthy bubble bath habits (or any other aspect of our non-working lives) when deciding our schedules. Often, that means we get condemned to work on days we'd prefer not: birthdays, Thursdays, Christmas. Ugh, it's all very annoying.
But as Reddit user isankit points out, working on Christmas doesn't exclusively exist as a creative way for your company to punish you.
This season has been wonderful. I've been going through a really rough time, and I've made fast friends at work that have helped me through it. My boss even bought me a giant bag full of produce for Christmas. I cried.
Produce for Christmas! Tears that don't sound like they stem from sadness! See? This burden doesn't have to be an obligation to throw yourself a pity party complete with a piñata of indigence. Or throw the party anyway (piñatas are fun)! You're working on Christmas — you're allowed to change your mind. Here's some of the thoughts and feelings swimming through that insane mind of yours during this character-building experience:
"This is okay. It's not all about me today."
The world doesn't start and stop with my petty preferences or personal life on any other day of the year—why should this arbitrary Thursday be any different? Instead of focusing on me and all the awesome stuff I'd rather be doing/eating, I'm going to focus on how helpful I'm being to others by lending out my awesomeness.
"Come to think of it, people who ask for this holiday off are kinda selfish."
You wanna strut around in a Snuggie for an audience of people biologically obligated to love you? Hmm... sounds a bit uninventive and self-centered to me. Instead of marathoning Love, Actually among a slew of Hugh Grant apologists, I will be here pulling up my boot straps, contributing to society, and secretly streaming the Serial finale. Everyone wins.
"OK, this actually does suck. Why me?"
That finale was disappointing. I'm over the saint syndrome now. Sure, I got Thanksgiving off, but this is Christmas and somehow that makes things different. I'd very much like to stop wearing real pants now, and fiiiiiine, I'll admit Hugh Grant was pretty cute in Notting Hill or whatever. I really need a sugar cookie or seven.
"That double-time pay, though."
At least I'm getting some extra dough for keeping this stupid ship afloat while all my idiot colleagues are off participating in mulled wine-guzzling contests. Mulled wine...Dough...Oh god, those sugar cookies. Hey, didn't Hugh Grant have those three babies back-to-back recently? I wonder what kind of glittery garb Hugh dressed them in for holiday cards. (Seriously, I can't be the only one who thinks about Hugh Grant a lot at Christmas.)
"At least I have coffee if I have to work. Also, this coffee would be better Irish."
Everyone in my Instagram feed seems to be enjoying a hearty laugh with family and daytime alcoholic beverages. Nothing seems catastrophically wrong with a light spike of holiday cheer in that culpa joe. No, I don't need you to tell me what "light" means. How's that report coming along? Much easier now. In fact...
"You know what? I've earned a break. I'm working on Christmas. I get all the breaks I want."
Maybe I'll Google Hugh Grant. What??! Hugh Grant spent Christmas in the hospital when he was four because he shoved apple peels up his nose? I bet he gets this—my struggle working on The Sweet Baby Jesus' birthday. I bet he can relate. Man. Did I just compare my Christmas Day shift to a small child's possibly very dangerous accident? No wonder the fates punish me like this.
"I wonder if anyone even misses me at home."
Surely the nieces and nephews noticed their favorite aunt isn't there to force them to pose for approximately 32 buddy selfies? I wonder if they'd spare some sugar cookies from their little stockings. Of course they would, right? I have got to stop looking at Instagram and all of my coworkers' freaky-looking relatives.
"How do I get out of this punishment next year?"
So, I've got today and this year on lock. I will work hard and be (mostly) sober, even if I don't actually want to do either of those things. I will fulfill my employer's evil wishes to make me work this sacred day, a day which should be dedicated to egg nog and moving as little as possible. This year. This time—but never again. Come December 26 it starts: the plotting to make sure I have Christmas off next year. It's what Hugh would want.
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