The Moment of Truth (Hurts)

Fifteen minutes to go before I dial the number of doom (i.e., work) to call in for my shift bid.

I hadn’t let myself get too stressed out about it up until this morning. With a shift bid for about 130 – 150 employees it’s hard to get a handle of what might be available when your 80th from the top. The list they give you to look at is huge, and there are only a few numbers you can come up with from a document that you can’t get a copy of – that there are 59 people below me and that there are around 45 or so shifts where the days off are inexplicably split up. These numbers encourage me, albeit slightly. What I do know is that unless something truly weird happens, I will not be working day-shift and I am not likely to have split days off unless I so choose.

They’d had numerous troubles with the shift bid so far. We were supposed to have it a month ago and it was rejected by our site staff either once or twice, wisely knowing that the employees would riot – more than they are doing now at any rate. A lot of full-timers have seen their weekends off either vanish or come with later start times. This does not bode well for those of us who had day-shift purely by accident as of the last shift bid. And there are people already looking for work, either because they are not enjoying the new campaign we are on or because they are sure to lose their current shifts due to low seniority.

Me? I don’t know yet. Only seven minutes left before I find out one way or the other.

Working later would suck, but would give me more time in the morning to write. And sunshine. Oh, how I’ve missed sunshine. It feels that every day I had off, the clouds would roll in and dump another wave of snow on our heads. And I’d have to walk to work, bypassing my lazy inclinations. But that will also screw up eating dinner. Right now, we eat late, but we still eat something hot and freshly made when I come home. Later shifts would see my lunches pushed to around the dinner hour, meaning endless sandwich dinners and late night eating when I did get home.

I need another job but my timing, as usual, is impeccably poor.

Five minutes. Might as well keep writing right up until the call. My stomach knots, the back of my throat tastes sour, my shoulders both ache and tremble. Why do I always find myself in the ass-end of the job search? I’m reasonably intelligent, hard-working, I care about getting things right, I listen, I help. Is there no place for me out there?

Two minutes. I write down the golden questions that saved my ass the last shift bid: What’s your earliest start time? What has a Friday as one of the days off?

One minute. Here we go.

Well … interesting … I still have day shift. Tuesday / Wednesday off, 9:45 am to 6:15 pm. People must have really missed their weekends.  Shows you what I know!

So, no morning writing for me, but I still get dinner. And there is still possibility for me to get to the meetings for the SHS at a reasonable time. Fingers crossed.  


PS: That’s twice now, once here and once on Facebook, where I used the word ‘word’ in place of work.  A SHS-member has already teased me about the freudian nature of it.  It’s not even like it’s a mistype – you have to type ‘d’ and ‘k’ with different hands!  Weird.


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