The drudgery of working has again intruded on my schedule. One of the sancrosanct traditions of my existence during the recent hiatus from the world of employment, has been Tuesday High Tea. In actuality, "Tea" is just a euphemism for "Beer." A small group of unencumbered semi-retired guys getting together for a couple of cold brews for an hour or so, to discuss the issues of the day and to celebrate our liberty.
Our wives (all of whom work) do not object to this benevolent weekly gathering. They think it's nice for guys to initiate social interaction that doesn't involve sports. They worry that a guy not-working spends too much time alone. They have read stories about men who become despondent during retirement, and they encourage us to find activities that make us get dressed and leave the house.
Yesterday, for the first time, I missed it. No, I didn't forget what day it was (as one member of our group frequently claims.) And I certainly didn't have anything better to do. I was working.
Just as I was about to leave to head over to Natick, the Office Manager asked if I could help with an emergency mail-merge for a communication that had to go into the mail yesterday. I am ashamed to admit that I did not yell "Tough darts, see ya tomorrow," (as I would have, if I had been an employee.)
No, like the mercenary whore that I am, I thought about the money. I sat down and designed master document and the database query that churned-out several reams of perfectly-composed personal letters and matching labels instead of going for a beer with my buddies. This is how debased we can become as desperate house husbands trying to earn enough cash to buy the wife an expensive piece of jewelry for a Christmas present, (or perhaps a nice 5 megapixal digital camera for himself.)
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