It's another brittle day, all of them inching over the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco, their typical trek to cluttered desks, schlepping with their hangovers, their NPR, carpools and podcasts, prescription pills and nicotine patches, their high-def depressions, Lasik so they can see all their designer disaffections, lipstick inadvertently smeared on bleached teeth, bags under their eyes or Botox time machines, bald spots or slick dye jobs, bellies wedging in pants or carved Pilates bodies, their urges to call in sick, their woulda coulda shouldas.
More rationalizations and regrets running through the air than cell signals.
No one wants to get to work. Even those claiming to enjoy their jobs still bristle at the idea of oozing into ergonomic chairs, reviving computer screens, feeling the days flickering chaos erupt on their faces.
A couple extra hours of sleep. A half-day. Telecommuting. Something other than the full slog. The particulars of their jobs don't even matter because all the variables lead to one delicate plea: please, give us a day off. A day to ourselves. A day to feel free. To be alive.