Monday, June 19, 2006

Holiday. Celebrate.

On the subway this morning, half asleep and so angry at the woman leaning her whole body against the pole I was trying to hold, I wished like nothing else that I would get to work and find the building leveled by a freak earthquake. Nobody hurt, none of the surrounding buildings toppled, nothing disastrous. I just wanted so badly come up out of the subway to see the (unscathed) doorman standing on the curb, shaking his head at the pile of rubble that used to be my office. "Well," someone important from my company would say, "Guess we can't go to work. Of course we'll still pay you. Double, for all this emotional stress. And for the priceless and irreplaceable cubicle artwork that was, sadly, destroyed. Here is a gargantuan check with so many zeros on the end it'll make you crave a bowl of Cheerios."

It's about 76,000 degrees outside (Fahrenheit), and my skin is melting off at the thought of going out to pick up lunch later this afternoon. I hate summer, I really do. People who voluntarily move to tropical climates mystify me. I would never want to live in a place where the weather report actually tells you not to go outside during the hours between ten o'clock in the morning and four o'clock in the afternoon. I would pass out the moment I left climate control, and a herd of retirees would trample my body to pulp on the way to a buffet.

I could never survive in Florida. I do, however, sort of understand the appeal of living a permavacation. I'd love a day off, or several in a row, or two hot months with nothing else to do besides collect a paycheck and sit on my (expanding, sedentary) ass. Since I'm starting a new job at the beginning of next week it's possible that I won't have any vacation days at all this year. I'm excited about the new place I'm going to work, but when I realize that I may work every day between now and January it's very easy to envy people with the kind of job or wealth that lets them take off whole months at a time.

Of course, there are plenty of people in the world who work every day, not just every business day, doing jobs that are much more difficult than photocopying several pages in a row. But still, still, I want a break. It shocks me every summer that this is how life goes, that past the event horizon of Graduating College there isn't a whole season of reprieve from responsibilities waiting at the end of every June.

When I was in high school, it seemed like the stress of trigonometry and the PSATs was unbearable. Through tenth and eleventh grade I had this sort of weird group of friends who would, whenever school got hectic or we got bored, declare the next day Prada Day. Looking back on it now I'm not sure where we got this absurdist, basically Dada idea from, but Prada Day could happen on any day of the week, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the designer. Things various Prada Days did include:

-Taping flyers up on every tape-able surface.
-Possibly also confetti. I seem to remember something about confetti.
-A donkey pinata filled with condoms and office supplies.
-The Vice Principal confiscating said pinata, as well as my scarf, which was what it was hanging from.
-Cupcakes.
-I think balloons, one time.
-For some reason, enemas. Just the product, not the use of.
-Cartoon renderings of enema bottles.

Anything you could produce from your locker that wasn't normally produce-from-a-locker-able was part of the celebration, as was fielding questions from the rest of the student body (and a good portion of the faculty) about what, exactly, was going on. I'm still not entirely positive myself, but at the time invoking the Prada Day cause was enough to convince my mother to drive me to the grocery store to buy cake mix and frosting enough for fifty cupcakes, each decorated with "PRADA" across the top.

I'm not saying it was sane.

The point wasn't the actual celebrations, though. I think the whole crazy mess was about having a holiday in the middle of some week in March, when the only thing to look forward to was getting back your English essay.

The middle of June in an office is no better. And the looks you get from your cubicle neighbors when you try to hang a donkey from the ceiling are much more severe.

3 Comments:

Blogger katy said...

We had the same thing in high school...only we called it ARF and the theory of randomness...something. I don't remember anymore.

We painted half of our face blue. And sat on all the mattresses in Sears.

It was a small island.

Anyway, I'm all for bringing that to the office. I'm so sick of decorating just for the "normal" holidays. I'd love for my boss one day to tell me to line the cubes with peaches and sage leaves...just cause.

We should start that.

8:29 PM  
Anonymous brad said...

prada day, don't you have a prada bag that my mom gave you for christmas? why not fill it with enema products on your last day and run around the halls throwing them like so many parade string-loop suckers? yeah, i said suckers. not lollipops. what are you, a fag?

why don't you go wait ON LINE in your ORANGE SNEAKERS to MERRILY MARRY MARY you SODA LOLLIPOP whore...

10:49 AM  
Blogger DMo said...

New job?! Congratulations.

4:47 PM  

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