Distancing #53: Da Drought 3

I’m an English teacher, and like many other off-white-collar professionals, I experience fear and loathing every Sunday night. No matter how relaxing the weekend was, my computer gnaws at the good vibes as I respond to emails and plan lessons and psych myself up for five more days of convincing people that words matter. I’m grateful for my calling, but that late-night scramble is as inevitable as it is depressing.

Honestly, the only time in my life I ever felt free on a Sunday was when I spent a year between college and grad school selling CDs at the mall. (In fact, Monday was usually my day off at F.Y.E.) My shift might look like this: open the store with one other coworker—sometimes Tiffany, who got ridiculed for carrying hand sanitizer. Organize new and used products, the best of which I might set aside for myself. Point people toward CDs and DVDs I genuinely thought they would like. Take lunch at Subway, where everybody knew my name. Continue to ring people up and answer questions about half-remembered album art. Be the master of my domain and remind people they could save 20 percent by registering for a rewards card.