Not Quite Sick Enough

The perversity of the human mind and the individual's capacity for self-inflicted pain are a constant wonder to The Cube. And The Cube is speaking from personal experience.

The Cube feels like crap today. Sick. Not infectious sick, but a wounded weekend warrior suffering from bumps and bruises and possibly a cracked something earned from a Sunday of physical thrills that were not that thrilling when a kid and even less so now. But still we try and convince ourselves that it's fun.

And pay for it. Ohhh, today . . . 'Shouldn't come into work today.

But, you convince yourself that you are needed. That today "it is necessary" to come to the office. That "things won't get done without me." These self-delusions would have been easier to sustain if anyone had noticed that The Cube was in.

But it wouldn't have mattered if they'd noticed in spades, because The Cube was coming in anyway: sure, there are 57 hours of sick pay waiting to be used - but am I sick enough today? What if I get really sick? (We're not talking catastrophic illness here - The Cube is not an alarmist - but the kind of heavy cold/flu/nausea/fever sick that's sure to make the rounds once September drifts into November and runny noses amongst the jungen spread their germs amongst their elders.)

But it wouldn't matter if The Cube was sick in aces, because "is it sick enough" to take off work? The Cube is not a hero. The Cube misses work sometimes. But not when really sick. Something inside keeps perversely preventing that type of logical and well-founded absence. No, we wait until the car breaks down, or we oversleep and would be embarrassed to come dragging in ten minutes after the Important Meeting has ended - then we call in sick.

But not today. Not when actually feeling like refried hell on a stick. Smart us.