Once upon a time I ran a sandwich shop.
Yes, it was back in the early 00’s when I was a mayo-squirting kingpin working in the sticky, mustard-smeared sandwich underbelly. Surrounding me were a hodgepodge of acne-covered teenage longhairs who clocked in each day to slice tomatoes, chop green peppers, and fill paper cups right to the foamy brim.
Now, it was just a small shop in the corner of a dusty plaza in the suburbs and we had maybe a dozen folks on payroll, tops. As you can imagine, we got tight pretty quickly and little social norms started bubbling up — things like last one there gets the morning coffees, sobbing uncontrollably while chopping onions is completely acceptable, and everyone dresses up in full costume on Halloween.
Of course, by far and away the most popular house rule we developed was everyone gets their birthday off. It was pretty easy to schedule and the excitement leading up to those big days gave us all giddy little schoolkid highs.
Nope, we don’t get many birthdays on this spinny wet rock so let’s try to take them off.
AWESOME!
