I attempted to extract the joy out of each moment of my final day before going back to work; but I’d been staying up much later than I usually do, so I attempted to adjust my bedtime to a more reasonable hour; unfortunately, I couldn’t sleep and was restless into the early morning. When the alarm woke me I smacked the whiny thing onto the floor; thankfully, the batteries spilled out and the dreadful cacophony ceased. I went back to sleep, but woke up in a panic: I felt like I’d overslept for hours, but it had only been a few minutes.

The world was oddly distorted through my half-opened, puffy eyes, but I managed to perform my morning ablutions and dress myself without falling down.

I pretended to read the paper; finally, after I’d finished a cup of coffee, the black marks on newsprint transformed into pseudo-meaningful messages (the only thing I really cared about was the yellow orb on the front page (which indicated that I wouldn’t require an umbrella) but the patio drapes were opened and — in case a passer-by peered in — I wanted to look the part of a morning person).

One of our cats was drinking out of the water dish on the patio, so I got up to let it in, but then I noticed it was a skunk, so I turned abruptly and went to the kitchen, where I toasted a bagel for breakfast (the lid on the cream cheese container put up a fight and the butter was too hard, so I consumed the bagel unadorned). I then made a Spartan lunch (banana, cheese sandwich (pre-sliced havarti on multigrain bread: I wasn’t going to revisit the butter or cream cheese experience), and two cookies (after all, I deserved a treat)).

I grabbed my keys, cell-phone and garage door opener, but I couldn’t find my wallet. After an exhaustive search of at least two minutes I found it on the dining-room table (it had been hiding behind a novel).  I was pleased to notice my shoes almost immediately: they were under the dining-room table; unfortunately, my depth perception hadn’t kicked-in and I smacked my head on the table as I bobbed down to recover the shoes. That hurt, but it had the encouraging side-effect of waking me slightly.

The drive to work was uneventful (although I can’t speak for anybody who may have crossed paths with me). I eased into my usual, shady parking spot, but couldn’t find my parking pass: and then I remembered that I hadn’t renewed my pass for the month; instead, I’d decided to park on the street and enjoy a twenty-minute morning walk the rest of the way (the $100 a month savings was somewhat less appealing at that moment). I re-started the car and drove to the closest free-parking spot.  The twenty-minute walk was refreshing and, even though I was going to be slightly late to work, the day finally seemed to be heading in a pleasant direction.

But when I got to work a curse may have escaped my lips.

A little background is necessary here. I work in a restricted area, which, from the outside, looks like a minimum security prison: nine-foot high chain-link fence all around. To gain access, an electronic access-card is required: my card gets me in the first door, then through the front gate and another door, then into the building where I work (my card also allows me access to other restricted areas, but that wasn’t of immediate concern). It’s virtually impossible to get in the front gate without a card: the gate will only allow one person at a time to enter (it may be possible to ‘tailgate’ another person through the gate, but you’d have to be extremely agile and squeeze flat against your co-conspirator; and, even if another person would allow you to ‘tailgate’ (perhaps a hunched-over piggyback maneuver would suffice), an alarm would sound and the area is monitored by security cameras, so unless you want to gain access for illegal means, it’s really not worth the effort).

I keep my access-card in the locked glove compartment of my car (probably against site-policy, but that way I can’t forget it at home), so I walked back to the car to get it. As I was opening the car door, my memory began to function: during my holidays I’d taken everything out of the car and had the interior detailed. After looking in the glove compartment (the access card wasn’t there, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure), I decided to walk back to work and try phoning security.

Security asked me a bunch of questions on the phone and then they met me at the front gate and asked more questions and asked for my ID. I was beginning to fear a cavity search was imminent, but they finally let me in and granted me a temporary access-card (I should mention that I start work earlier than most: my job involves a maintenance/support role, and it’s handy if I arrive early. There were no co-workers available to vouch for me: the Company’s product is extremely time-sensitive and anyone at work at that time would be very busy).

Once I got to my desk I started my computer; even though everyone had known I was away on vacation, over five hundred e-mail messages were waiting for me, many of which I could delete without reading, but I hadn’t finished slogging through them before lunchtime. The afternoon dragged; my lack of sleep was causing a brain-fog, and as the end of the day approached I began to dread the walk through the afternoon heat to my car, which would surely be like an oven when I crawled into it.

I like to feel like I’ve accomplished something useful after a day’s work, but I completed nothing significant all day; nonetheless, when it was finally time to go home, I was at least happy to have survived my first day back.

When I was leaving at the end of the day a coworker said, “Did you know that your shirt is inside-out?”

Retirement can’t come soon enough.

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