No, I DON'T Want to Work on My Day Off!

This article is reprinted from THE DRIVERS SIDE
My Friday is actually Monday. Usually I get long hours on my last day of the week, so when I set the parking brake in the yard, I'm D-O-N-E. Do I really want to work my weekend? Absolutely, irrevocably, most definitely, not.


Last week on my Friday, I worked 12 hours. The final 9 were in the fleet's oldest bus. My butt flat-out hurt. (It was worn flat, too.) My thighs were numb, I had a raging headache and cramping calves from the lack of ergonomic comfort in the driver's seat. When I came off the bus, I kind of short-hopped in a disjointed activity vaguely resembling a human walk. When I limped into my kitchen, the quickest meal to heat up was quickly devoured. Within 20 minutes, I was in bed, asleep. The time was 7:40 p.m.

Drivers live in uniform the entire week. We get up early, shower, and put on a fresh set. For me, it's worn from before dawn to well after sunset. On my first day off, it is joyous to throw yesterday's uniform in the laundry basket and put on my civvies. It's like saying hello to old friends. Hello old concert T-shirt, long time no see! Howdy, my favorite blue jeans, grey athletic socks, revered and decrepit smashed-up hat. And the  shoes! My feet practically sigh as I slip into my Keen boots, the most comfortable shoes I've ever owned. Why the hell would I pass up such blissful comfort just to earn a few hundred bucks? Not bloody likely, Boss.

There's always a long honey-do list in our house. Since I have teenaged boys, that makes me "Honey". The long winter has rendered our yard a wooly mess. The grass is up to my knees in the back yard. The raised beds are sprouting weeds of every variety rather than featuring neat rows of yummy-to-be veggies. The roses need a spring pruning, even though they were leafing out a month ago. Our bathroom seriously needs a paint job.

On my last two days off, I finally had the chance to wash, wax and detail our 6-year-old car. It was a mess, but now it looks new again. It was long and grueling, and my body was sore, but my butt no longer hurt.

It's time to start the garden. Sorry Boss, but Homey won't drive a bus on his days off. Period. For two days a week, I'm her Honey, not your Homey. There's plenty of work to be done, and it keeps home boss happy. She does still like to see me out of uniform from time to time. Plus, she hates a flat butt.