The Working World

How I Imagine My Hypothetical Average Workday, by Decade(s)

My parents always say things like “back in my day…the world was a better place” or “back in my day…we didn’t need e-mail to have a good time.” Here’s how I see it:

The Fifties
I get out of bed and put my slippers on. Everything is in grayscale. My wife has prepared a beautiful smorgasbord of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and cereal flakes. My blond son, Timmy, and my blonde daughter, Diane, both tell me how they are so proud of their father. I smile and one of my front teeth literally sparkles. We all giggle. The golden retriever giggles too. I tell Timmy he had better eat his cereal flakes if he wants to get big and mighty like Hank Aaron. We all pray to family values and thank God we don’t live in Russia.

When I get into work, my secretary compliments me on my clean and neat haircut. She gives me many reports I won’t read. I drink three glasses of scotch, smoke a pack of cigarettes, have conversations that might seem racially insensitive with today’s standards and eventually end up at a meeting in which we are told the company is growing at an outstanding rate.

I return home, sock hop for an hour or two and repeat.

The Sixties/Seventies
I get out of bed and put my slippers on. Everything is in color, but a bit too bright and with a lot of neon. My wife is making French toast but doing that dance where she makes V’s with her hands and draws them across her eyes. She serves the French toast and then does that dance where she puts her hands on her knees and continually crosses them. My two twins have longish hair. My older son seems in a daze and it’s rubbing me the wrong way. I eye him as I cut my French toast. I tell him he’s going to need to get his act together if he’s going to be the next Carl Yastrzemski. I eye him down some more.

When I get into work, my secretary compliments me on my tight-fitting suit and willowy sideburns. She gives me many reports I won’t read. We discuss current fads like mood rings and feminism and eventually end up in a meeting in which we are told the company is opening up branches in London, Brussels and Los Angeles.

I return home, do the twist for an hour or two and repeat.

The Eighties/Nineties
I get out of bed and put my slippers on. I look at the hand-painted murals of Ronald Reagan on the living room wall for three to four minutes. My wife is making eggs. When she serves them, I loudly say “Where’s the beef?” and everyone erupts in laughter, including my nosy neighbor Mr. Peterson who’s watching us in the window. I tell my son, seriously, you need to eat beef if you’re going to get big like Barry Bonds.

When I get into work, my secretary compliments me on my “Frankie Says Relax” T-Shirt, denim jacket, and faded jeans with rips at the knees. In the meeting, the boss says, “the company is bankrupt…” and then follows with: “Psych!” That whole “Psych!” thing gets me good. We decide to invest in the internet, and Apple.

I return home, put in face time for the wife’s Tupperware party, and repeat.

Today
I get out of bed and put my Crocs on. When I get downstairs my wife gives me a bowl of store-brand Oats n’ Flakes n’ Bran. My son is using technology I don’t understand. I Twitter, “the milk is warm.” My wife blogs that because we are in such a recession, we can only afford to purchase warm milk. This logic evades me, but I accept it. I comment on her post, asking if she needs me to pick up the kids from school. She does. I tell my son if he wants to get fast like Usain Bolt he should run home from school.

When I get to work, I check my e-mail. My bosses sent me a lot of graphs with big red arrows going downwards. I check LinkedIn, Facebook, MySpace, Friendster, Ibibo, lolcats, my blog, my blog’s blog, my Twitter’s Facebook, et cetera, until we have a meeting. In the meeting our boss says, “The company might be bankrupt…Psych! We’re definitely bankrupt. Get your stuff together and leave.”

I return home, put on a pair of skinny jeans, do some Sudoku, and repeat.

Tags: history, humor, work