Scratch that: I will complain. Right here.
As an employee of the distinguished University of California, I have already been informed by President Mark G. Yudof that I may expect a wage cut and/or work furlough resulting in an approximately 8% salary decrease. Sigh. It's not like I make a lot of money in the first place. My salary is one that can make cocktails come out the noses of my almost all better-paid friends. In the past years, we have either received no cost of living or merit increases or ones so tiny that they are immediately gobbled up by increases in our part of health care insurance costs. In effect, I have already been making less money every year. But I've not complained. I love what I do, and in my mind there's no price tag you can put on that.
And I've been working harder. There are no longer any editorial assistants in my department. And there are fewer editors. But the same number of books. Contract positions (that took the place of once full-time positions) are not being renewed. People leaving or retiring are not being replaced. And people have been laid off. But still, I've not complained. It's frustrating and sad but unfortunately unavoidable.
BUT NOW I AM COMPLAINING. They've messed with my salary and my workload, but now they're messing with my LUNCH. That's right: my goddamned lunch. Is nothing sacred?? Lunch time is supposed to be a BREAK for eating lunch or doing whatever else you want to do. Eating lunch with my colleagues ("brown bag lunch meetings") to hear about our upcoming switch to Gmail or how to handle diacritics and nonroman alphabets in electronic editing does not quality as a break. Of course, we're not required to attend these meetings, but missing them means you're out of the loop on important material that directly affects your job.
If I haven't ridden my bike to work (long grinding hill all the way home) or plan on running after work, I go to the gym for spin. On days I bike or run, I go to Pilates. Most of the time. I then eat while I work back in the office. Lunch meetings wreak havoc with this well-laid and compulsive plan.
What's next? The six-day work week? Count me crabby.