Turandot, or how to skip your own farewell party
I can now comfortably share this story, as it happened a few months ago.
…ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ
My temporary job within the company I was sent to was coming to an end. I tried to find the courage to finish what was still on the backlog, but I found it very hard to muster up the necessary attention span. I had two days left, and I grappled with the thought of whether starting a training to become a baker would be too much of an overreaction.
There was a farewell party planned at the end of my last day. I am not very good at those, not because I am unsociable but because, well, I can be rather awkward. It was in between the dreams of becoming a baker or the next Michelangelo (the painter, not the turtle) that my good friend Massa called.
“Hey, quick question. If, hypothetically, I had won two VIP tickets for an opera for tomorrow evening, would you be able to join?”
“Oh no, so unlucky. My farewell party was planned for that time, and I already confirmed.” Under social pressure, I added in my mind.
“The tickets are for VIP spots! And you would be chaperoned by yours truly.”
I thought about the next day, and what I would regret missing the most.
“Massa.”
“Hmm?”
“I have a terrible stomach ache.”
“Oh?”
“I can feel it... I’ll be on the toilet ’til tomorrow evening.”
“Oh no, that is horrible. You’ll miss your farewell party.” Massa said gravely.
“It can’t be helped.”
“Would be a shame if your stomach suddenly is OK after 6pm because you then still would have the time to make it to the opera at 7pm.”
“I’ll tell my stomach to stick to the schedule.”
In the next day and a half, I finished what was left on the backlog. And that all with a stomach ache and a slightly guilty conscience. To appease that guilt a bit, I sent a message in the evening and the next morning that I was working from home because I did not feel well. They still let the farewell party go on without me, which in itself was hilarious and comforting.
The opera was simply mesmerizing, and I was so grateful to be able to experience it. Massa and I stood out like piranhas at a poodle party. The set design, the emotions, the choir, the choreography. I would have never guessed ‘Nessun dorma” came from this opera. Puccini also sounded like a madman, if the short presentation of his life before the opera was anything to go by. Another thing I learned is that there can be subtitles provided, which was something I had often wondered about. They will stream this opera online for free from September 9 until October 13. If you’re interested, shoot me a message, and I can send you a link.
To close off, look at this wonderful poster design from 1926:
After this adventure, I made a rough set of rules (tips?) for all of you who also consider playing hooky at work.
- The most important one is: no collateral damage. Be it another colleague, be it your future self. Don’t put someone else in trouble, don't jeopardize your own future prospects.
- Don’t do it just because you can, don’t try to find the limit.
- You’re going to feel guilty, you will have to watch your step. Make sure it’s worth it, because a lot of people don’t feel great doing it.
- Don’t. Be. Stupid. So many people play hooky to go somewhere where they might stumble across colleagues. Avoid a public setting as much as possible. Being in the supermarket won’t raise eyebrows (unless you’re there all smiles and laughing), but being at an arcade will.
- Ban social media or anything digital the moment you’re supposed to be 'sick’. Almost every employer finds out you’re playing theater this way.
I can feel the 'work' bro's already coming for me, so I'm going into hiding.
Fugitive greetings
Rat