Life
by Andy Moore on May 22, 2013

You now stand on the cusp of a new adventure. A great, wondrous world of steady paychecks, Microsoft Excel, and water cooler conversations about The Voice. But what else is in store? Good news: I’ve peered into your future, and I’ve come back with the definitive look at how your first day will go.

5:58 a.m. OH MAN I’VE MISSED THE ALARM OH MAN IT’S PROBABLY 10 A.M. OH SHIT OH MAN WHERE’S MY PHONE.

5:59 a.m. Whew. You realize that you’ve woken up 30 minutes prior to Alarm Time. You’ve got a full half-hour of uninterrupted sleep ahead of you. This is a gift. This is a treasure. You must have done something right lately. Karma. Was it the dollar you slipped the corner hobo yesterday? That must have been it.

8:15 a.m. Wake up from a suspiciously lengthy dream involving Bowser’s Castle, Ryan Gosling, and a girl you saw at Walgreens six months ago. Mentally struggle with the ramifications of Gosling appearing in your dreams; comfort yourself by saying that it probably stems from that HBO showing of Drive you just saw. Lazily look at your cell phone. Oh dear god.

8:16 a.m. You’re…. You’re going to be late. There’s no way around it. You’re going to be late for your first day and your boss is probably going to fire you and you’re going to be back home searching for that shoebox by tomorrow a.m.

You’ve got 45 minutes to shower, brush your teeth, and commute. You’re going to be late.

8:20 a.m. Decide to roll with a “Mexican Shower” and an “abbreviated tooth brush.” Smear Old Spice all over your torso.

8:30 a.m. Out the door in time! Things are looking up! Coffee won’t be necessary for at least two hours, too. Adrenaline!

8:50 a.m. Realize that you're going to be commuting an hour a day. Five hours a week. Roughly 240 hours a year. Over 10,000 hours over the course of a 35-year career. This is a staggering amount of time. You could learn a foreign language; maybe even listen to books on tape—hundreds of them! You’re looking at a real #lifehack opportunity here. This is self-betterment time.

8:59 a.m. Pull in the parking lot. You just flipped between The Bob and Tom Show and a “All the Hits! Bob 93.3” Ke$ha marathon for 30 minutes straight.

9 a.m. Tom Coughlin would kill you, but you’re not technically late. Still gonna have to skip the introductory convo with the secretary. You two will hit off later. The sun doesn’t set on a ‘Nova.

9:05 a.m. Hey, hey, danishes and free coffee. Not bad. You’re going to gain 32 pounds this month. But that’s okay. You’re an adult now. Jowls=“looking mature.”

9:30 a.m. Enter the “introductory meeting.” The trainees all look vaguely tired, and the guy next to you wants to talk about the TV show Revolution, which you keep insisting you’ve never seen. Thankfully, an excited woman begins talking at the front of room.

9:45 a.m. You have no idea what she has said for the last 15 minutes.

10 a.m. “Paradigm shift.”

10:05 a.m. “Leverage.”

10:42 a.m. “Synergistic.”

10:55 a.m. “Diversity empowerment.”

11:00 a.m. “When the rubber meets the road.”

11:01 a.m. Everyone else is taking notes. You've got nothing. You’re still just trying to memorize the buzzwords.

11:10 a.m. “Sea change.”

12:00 p.m. Break. Nothing has made sense and the same dude keeps talking about Revolution. You’re informed that lunch will be “provided,” which is awful. You would kill for an hour spent at a Zaxby’s drive-through. You eat your turkey sandwich in silent anger.

(You have now learned the true meaning of the phrase, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”)

12:30 p.m. Training is over. You’re led, like an inmate to the chair, to your cubicle.

1 p.m. In one hour, it’ll be only three hours until you can leave. And in two hours, it’ll be only two hours until you can leave.

1:15 p.m. In 45 minutes it’ll be only three hours until you can leave. And in 90 minutes, it’ll be only two hours and 15 minutes until you can leave.

1:16 p.m. In 44 minutes it’ll be only three hours until you can leave. In two hours…

1:20 p.m. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

1:30 p.m. You realize that your mind has briefly touched the void of insanity. That was a dark time. You get up from your desk, execute a couple of casual tricep stretches, and take the long walk to the coffee machine.

2 p.m. Poop Time! Why haven’t you done this yet? This is awesome! There's so much free time. Even the lighting is better in here.

2:30 p.m. All great things must come to an end. You return to your desk. You've discoverd that, like, half of all great websites are blocked. You’re reading the comments on an ESPN article. You still have no idea what your job actually entails.

3 p.m. You wonder if it would be weird if you went to go poop again. You decide to give it an hour.

4 p.m. Yeah, Poop Time.

4:50 p.m. SO CLOSE.

4:50 p.m. 

5 p.m. YES. YES. YES. YES.

5:05 p.m. You sit in you car. You just… Just need to unwind for a minute. Turn on the radio. It’s a Bob and Tom replay. Nice.

5:30 p.m. Arrive at the predetermined Happy Hour drink spot. Meet your co-workers for Coronas. (It’s always Coronas.) Make a move to mack on the Office Hot 7, Real Hot 3.

5:35 p.m. Creepy guy: “I’ve been listening to a lot of, uh, like 1940s standards lately? I’m just tired of listening to the same music over and over again.” 

5:36 p.m. You want to go home immediately.

5:50 p.m. Lie about having a dog. Tell everyone he has a weak bladder and needs to be let out. Consider buying a dog. Decide it’ll be easier to just lie about it for a year.

6 p.m. Pick up Chinese. You're probably going to fall asleep within two hours. Tomorrow is Tuesday.

Post-Sad appears once a week. Follow me on Twitter.

Andy Moore

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