Monday, April 5, 2004

I’m writing to you from my new digs in Wilmette, gentle reader, and I can already feel the tides of yuppiedom soaking into my pores. We haven’t talked in a few days, I know, and I’m sure much has changed since last Wednesday. For instance, with the exception of one fellow I spied in the local Panera Bread, it seems I’m the only non-Caucasian in town. That’s fine because my neighbors have yet to ask me about kung fu, fireworks, Pearl Harbor, or any configuration thereof. Of course, I often mistake myself for being white, so I guess I’m in a good place.

One thing’s for sure, though: Mondays blow chunks regardless of where you live. I think part of the problem comes from the endless ritual of two days’ rest and five days’ labor, a cycle that firmly plants Sisyphus in a cubicle with naught but the prospect of Caribbean Shirt Day to lighten his boulder. In my company–the one in my mind–the workweek wouldn’t include five eight-hour days. Instead, you’d work three hours on Monday, five on Tuesday, maybe seven on Wednesday, five on Thursday, and three on Friday. True, the number of hours is damn near halved, but what if productivity damn near doubled? Studies have shown that work habits follow this curve anyway, proof positive that I was right all along.

Are you listening to me, Business Week? Whoever invented the eight-hour workday should be shot, thrown into the street, dragged back inside to change into festive Hawaiian attire, then hauled back outside into rush hour traffic–on a Segway.