Today is Sunday, a sabbath for many people, and often a harder day than most others for me, and not always because I work (which I don't, anymore). It's all the things I do for my "culture" in the Marines.
Monday, in the real world, is the start of the workweek. It's typically the start of the garrison workweek as well, but it means field day for my unit. Lately, there's been some "issues" with field day, and as usual no one even knows what they are. The current company gunnery sergeant can't drive on base because he got a DUI. Yet he's in a high-profile billet and allowed to judge other (junior) Marines on their choices that don't get people killed, typically. I speak of field day and room cleaning. Unless, of course, your shop approves of bleaching the room with enough bleach to force me, living three rooms down the hall, to leave the barracks due to choking on fumes or to leave a corporal sick enough to be unable to work for a day. Common sense, people. But it's also the day of private lesson and karate class. These are far more important for me than my room being sterilized for that next day's inspection. The company guns wants all evidence of human habitation removed from sight. I of course, refuse. I have to cook my meals, execute bodily functions, and otherwise live in my room. I refuse to disappear for one to two days of every week so that my room looks like I don't live there.
So I clean up on Sunday to make sure I'm good for Monday evening and Tuesday inspection. Things to do, people. Things to do.
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