Dearest Rachel –
You’ll recall Scrooge’s admonition to Bob Cratchit after reluctantly giving him the day off (with pay!) for Christmas. While some versions have Bob reminding Scrooge that he can’t conduct business on Christmas, as all other businesses he would otherwise deal with would be closed, it wasn’t as if the practice of ‘holiday pay’ was enforced by anything other than the same custom that resulted in the closure of those same businesses. In any event, grateful for the time off granted him, Bob insists that he will, which his boss acknowledges with a skeptical growl.
His skepticism is warranted, of course, although Bob’s delay the following day is precipitated by the excessive merriment caused by Scrooge’s own conversion, and his acting upon it. As of closing time on Christmas Eve, however, neither of the two men were aware of what was to come in the subsequent forty-odd hours. But we can certainly relate to Bob, both in his promise to be the better employee Scrooge demands – as well as his inability to follow through with his promise. It’s hard, after a day or two of ‘making merry,’ to return to the office, especially when it’s only for one day before the weekend begins yet again (which, admittedly, wasn’t a thing in Dickens’ time).
While my ‘office’ situation is a little different from the average white-collar worker these days, I still remember those days. And I have something of an analogue in the fact that, after indulging in a weekend’s worth of all the rich food of the holiday…
…there’s this nagging sense that all these calories need to be burned off, even as the relaxed nature of the holiday itself precludes actually going out and doing something about it in the moment. I can’t be the only one, though, who promises themselves that come the morrow, they’ll be back in the gym, grinding away at getting rid of the excess built up over the holiday itself, only to find out how hard it is to get there so much earlier in the morning.
Although, in my defense, I will mention that I did wake up at an early enough hour to do myself proud. I called it a night some time between nine and ten (which you would have teased me about, but as I’d been up since four yesterday, you might have let it pass, particularly since you would have had enough to keep you occupied into the wee hours), so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that, when I opened my eyes for the first time, it was about half-past three in the morning. Of course, that is too early to bother getting up – even on a supposedly normal day such as this, it doesn’t open until four – and so I rolled over and attempted to get a little more shut-eye…
…only to find out what both my body and mind apparently agreed upon as being “a little more shut-eye”; how does four hours sound? It was pushing eight by the time I finally made my way to the gym. As Bob Cratchit sheepishly acknowledged when confronted by his scowling (although manfully struggling to keep his own mirthful composure) employer, “I am behind my time.” Still, at least I made it to the place, and went through all of my paces (including all of the weight machines I will occasionally push myself to use before getting on the treadmill), so I consider that I at least put in the effort to go and do what I had to, regardless of whether I wanted to or not. Behind my time or not, I’m still ahead of those who won’t get started until this time next week (and I’ll likely stick to it a lot longer than most of them will, too).
But with that late start on my day, it’s challenging to get much done on a day like this, sandwiched as it is between a pair of weekends. I may be able to get to the ‘office’ eventually, but will I get anything done? Or will I just decide that ensuring that your letter is sufficient ‘work’ to call the day good enough? After all, I have a few errands to run – both for myself and the folks – so calling a lid on the day after making sure I’ve at least put in an appearance at the ‘office’ may be all that’s required of me.
Either way, though, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on me for the rest of the day, honey, and wish me luck. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it, in any event.
Letters to Rachel 