The company I work for allows for a 9/80 flex schedule. If you aren’t familiar with this type of schedule, the “9/80” part of the name means that you work eight nine-hour days and one eight-hour day over the course of two weeks, leaving you with every other Friday off.
It’s amazing how fast you get used to having a three day weekend every other weekend. And how hard the weeks are when you don’t have Friday off.
Four day weeks are beautiful. The world is full of sunshine and rainbows. If clouds appear, they are white and fluffy and only rain chocolate kisses and lollipops.
I walk the halls smiling. I ask people, “So, are you off Friday?” The half that say “Yes” smile back. We look like this:
The following Monday, when I return from my three day weekend, the sunshine and rainbows have disappeared. The world is black. Clouds are gray and rain real rain again. Every day of the week feels like it is a year long.
I growl at smiling co-workers when they ask, “So, are you off Friday?” They give me a piteous look, and say, “Oh. A five day week.”
“Well, it’ll be quiet so I’ll get a lot done,” I say, trying to sound brave. “And I get to wear jeans.” The other person nods, but we both know it sounds lame.
And even though I was the sunshine monster last week, I hate them. I hate them for the four-day-workweek beam of light that follows them down the hallway, while I am left looking like Eeyore and his little black rain cloud pet.
Then Friday finally comes, and the halls are silent except for the high pitched whistle of air conditioning coming from the ceiling vents. The clock mocks me as the minutes crawl by like inebriated sloths. By two pm, the walls start closing in, and I look like this.
Then the whole cycle begins again, complete with sunshine and rainbows, on Monday morning.