Monday, November 9, 2009

Escapist. . .

I HOPE you're not reading this. I pray to the gods of mercy and light that you, sick to death of your dreary cubicle, opted out of the office today. I hope you faked a seizure and miraculously sprang back to 100% when the paramedics arrived. I hope your boss sent you home early just to be sure you're okay (and to avoid a lawsuit). I hope the SEPTA strike reacquainted you with your bike and the cardio has served you well. I hope you rode it to work today, thusly making the last leg of your great cubicle escape faster than the craziest cabby in Philly. I assume you're now sitting under a tree in Rittenhouse square, sipping a Capogiro latte and giggling at the people who put sweaters on their dogs and all the newest hipster fashion faux pas. I am confident that your coworkers are concerned for your well-being (figuring out who makes the best pumpkin loaf or cookies to leave at your desk [fyi, it's Bonnie]).
I know that your boss is convinced that the extra work load she/he has strapped to your back lately is the source of your ailment and will undoubtedly be giving you a healthy raise next quarter. When you show up bright and early tomorrow, you'll be the hero. A real trooper! Well played day, friend. YOU deserve a pint.

I suggest you take time out on this glorious, freakishly beautiful day for a casual stroll, a call to a friend, a wink at a stranger, a sip of the sauce, a song and a dance... something that makes your spirit feel all warm and fuzzy like it used to be. This day is a gift and a reminder to us that the sun, no matter how long her slumber, will always come back to us. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find a tongue depressant.


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