An unrepentant slacker’s confession

Last week, two Chicago-area students were recognized for more than just completing high school. They also received commendations for never missing a day of either grade school or high school. Twelve years of perfect attendance. How depressing.

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Yeah, yeah, I know. The lads should be applauded for their achievement. They’ve taken their educations seriously and demonstrated an admirable degree of tenacity. They serve as role models for other students. Perhaps I’m in the minority, but taking sick days has often been a source of considerable pleasure. I’m not speaking here of instances of grievous illness. It’s no fun using sick days when you’re really sick. Rather, I’m thinking about times when maybe I had the sniffles, or a dull headache, or a slightly upset stomach. Borderline instances. My Mom demanded we never lie about ailing. She thought that lying about it would lead to something bad. On the other hand, if we said we weren’t feeling well, she wouldn’t send us to school. Using this information prudently, I’d occasionally take a day off. There was something about hanging around the house when all the other kids were in school getting yelled at by the nuns, playing games and watching a little TV (and I do mean little; there were only four stations broadcasting back then) that rejuvenated the spirit. High school brought a somewhat different approach. It was enjoyable, except for the learning part that I never quite got down, so I didn’t want to miss too many days. Calling in sick for just the morning was a good strategy. Then I’d arrive for the first lunch period and stay for all three before checking into class. Showing up for all three lunch periods afforded an opportunity to socialize with other students, i.e., girls, who I might not see very often. Naturally, it also tripled the odds of being rebuked with the dreaded, “Get lost, creep,” but that’s a chance every man has to take. One doesn’t call in sick for college courses, of course. Instructors don’t care if anyone shows up or not. They get paid regardless, even if all they serve up is liberal misinformation. The military wasn’t a good place to call in sick. For one thing, they frowned on accepting calls from Mom explaining why you wouldn’t be in. For another, they might not give you the coveted Good Conduct Medal on your way out the door. There were compensations. Since my assignment required working several hours every Saturday, Wednesday afternoons were devoted to what was termed training. Sometimes, training was truly information that we needed to perform efficiently. Other times, however, it consisted of material like the importance of not driving drunk, not accumulating a mountain of debt, or not contracting a loathsome social disease. Since I already knew this stuff, most of it, anyway, it was a good time to practice deep relaxation techniques. And hope my face didn’t hit the desk. Often they’d let us go early, which felt almost as good as goofing off on a sick day. I’d return to the barracks and catch zzs in preparation for the Wednesday night poker game, as distinguished from the Thursday night poker game, the Friday night poker game – you get the idea. Transitioning to the civilian work world introduced its own challenges. I was fortunate. The two employers with whom I spent most of my working life granted paid sick days. You didn’t want to promiscuously burn sick days; what if you needed them for a serious, lengthy infirmity? On the other hand, workers at the employer from which I retired received 13 sick days a year, carried over from one year to the next. Since you weren’t paid for not using them, although unused time was credited for pension purposes, a powerful incentive to use them was obviously there. My policy was not to call in sick unless there were definitely something, trifling as it may be, wrong. This principle helped to diminish feelings of guilt. Moreover, once I called in, I stayed home all day unless a trip to the drugstore was needed. One co-worker wasn’t so careful. The day after he’d called in sick, his attendance at the Cubs’ game that afternoon was recorded for posterity on the back page of the Chicago Sun-Times. Maybe my Mom was onto something after all. The co-worker was sternly reprimanded and charged with vacation time. It didn’t happen again, at least not on the back page of the Chicago Sun-Times. Some supervisors were easier to call than others. One routinely asked, in an extremely icy tone loud enough for everyone to hear, “Does that mean we won’t see you today?” No disapproval was expressed, but the message came through loud and clear. Absenteeism was reduced, at least among the more craven employees. There’s more than a little truth to the practice of calling them mental health days. The real or imagined stresses of a job can build to a point where recharging the batteries is vital, even for people who love what they’re doing. Taking a day off works wonders. Doing little but reading, surfing the Net, catching up on naps, and watching the suitably named boob tube can be most therapeutic. Once you get past those initial twinges of guilt, you’ve got it made.