Afternoon-shift workers, I salute you

This one's from waaaaay back in July 2008. I've worked a few more afternoon shifts since then, and they still suck.

To those who work afternoons, I salute you.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been among your ranks, working my summer gig at The Review behind-the-scenes, putting stories and photos on pages. Because it’s a morning paper, we work afternoons and evenings packaging news for your next day’s edification and enjoyment.

I haven’t worked a steady afternoon shift for years. In college, I attended classes in the day and worked afternoons, evenings and weekends. It was easier then. The body was more prone to snap back quickly.

The problem with afternoons, as readers who work the shift know, is you’re always waiting to go to work.

Whether shopping, mowing the lawn, reading a book or running an errand, you have one eye on the clock, and a little voice inside your head is counting down.

You pretend it’s not so, but it is. If somebody asks you to go out of town, you accept only on days you have off. Otherwise, you’re running a mission with military precision, departing at 0900 hours to return home at 1400 hours to get ready for work. God forbid a friend wants to break for lunch or dawdle an extra 10 minutes. Move soldier, move, move, move.

You don’t get that gotta-be-back stress working days. Day workers come home from the job and go somewhere else without worrying what time they get back. Coming home late just means a little less shut-eye that night.

In sleep-deprived America, where everybody looks like an extra from Night of the Living Dead until noon or a fourth cup of coffee (whichever comes first), wandering around bleary-eyed is part of the dress code.

Midnight shifts are also better than afternoons because you have a longer stretch of time, psychologically speaking, to be off duty. Yes, you sleep during the day, which I’m convinced is not normal, but the trade-off is you wake up when all the zombies get off work, so you can spend time with them before your job begins.

As a Review colleague endlessly delights in pointing out, I am an up-before-dawn freak who finds greatest productivity between 5 and 9 a.m. The rest of the day is all downhill, and by 3 p.m., I’m ready for a nap.

My colleague is the opposite. He’s up at times when I believe sensible folks ought not be, listening to music or reading when the only people prowling about are vampires, grave robbers and Dumpster divers. He even takes naps at 11 p.m. so he’s not too tired to stay up even later.

He wonders how I’m holding up on afternoons, when my creativity is at its lowest.

Surprisingly, I’m doing OK, despite still waking up between 5 and 6 a.m. each day. I’ve never needed a lot of sleep anyway, and a few extra bags under my eyes just make it look like I’m packed for a longer trip.

The biggest change is coming home to a house where things have happened while I’ve been away. Not major things, mind you, but little signs that life continues without me. Food has been eaten, television watched, clothes washed and dried.

During the day, it’s just me and the pets. They sleep and I putter about doing little solitary things.

Not admitting it, of course, but watching the clock. It’s the curse of afternoons. I’m happy to have them, but I’ll be just as happy to be finished. Afternoon workers have my sympathy and respect.