The Tuesday after Labor Day is one of those universal milestone days in the corporate world. Same as how the week after July 4th signals permission to relax those clenched buttocks, wear short-sleeves to the office, and engage co-workers in excessive small-talk about the weather, the Tuesday after Labor Day is when employees abide by an unspoken edict to Get Back to Work.
It’s like the office version of the storied first day of school, except unlike the school children and college students, we were never officially on an extended vacation, we were just allowed to take a few days of reprieve without incurring collegial resentment and becoming a candidate for the next lay-off.
The subway was more crowded than usual at 7:45am, and the crowd was looking spiffy. There were more shoes than flip-flops, more dark-tone colors than flirty summer hues, and generally less bared flesh. Some people had their game faces on, as if restorative rest garnered from that one extra day off had given them renewed purpose. But most wore dejected “please let the train be involved in a non-fatal crash” expressions of woe.
Me, I just couldn’t shake the memory of yesterday’s hike. I step on the flawless concrete sidewalks in my Steve Madden flats, thinking about how yesterday I stomped on rock slabs in my hiking boots. I nibble on my Cosi sandwich, thinking about yesterday’s lunch of Babybel pressed between slices of French sandwich bread. I preen in the city’s soft sun and lulling breeze, thinking of yesterday’s frenzied gusts of wind on top of Mount Monroe.
