I’m a filthy little atheist. I believe neither in deities (except the Cat Goddess, at whose shrine I live) nor in traditions. The upside is not only that I’m solely responsible to myself (let’s avoid the term conscience here, it would be presumptuous to claim that I have one) but also that I don’t need to observe man-made traditions (let’s throw in here the classic catchphrase that traditions are social construct and gender is heteronormative – don’t worry if you have no clue what that means and go follow Shit Academics Say for more of the same).
I had known for about a week that Easter was approaching but it bore no relevance to me. At least so I thought until I was disproven – that is, until it showed up both that I thought wrong and that I didn’t think. I was walking past chocolate bunnies and eggs in shops noticing them fleetingly with my peripheral vision. I was thinking how come anyone buys that stuff when it’s a food fact universally acknowledged that you can’t find worse chocolate than the kind from which chocolate figures are made. Go and punish your kids by getting them some of those.
Idly stalking people in the interest of shooting them surreptitiously and calling it scenes of street life, I had been wondering for several days about the rise of a new phenomenon. I dubbed it the Egg Ecstasy aka Eggstasy. It consisted in the mass introduction of egg carriers of all sizes, the bigger the better, as a fashion accessory. Every other person in the street was walking around cradling lovingly an egg carrier. Did they expect to be attacked by a hoard of chicken-crazed hens looking for some eggs to sit on? Or was everyone going to some political meeting and since rotten tomatoes were out of stock, they equipped themselves with eggs? What the heck?
And then it clicked to me that it was Easter. Easter means eggs, supposedly everywhere. Across the Atlantic, the US President conceals his eggs and sends a bunch of kids in search of them. That’s a tradition to creep you out when you look at with non-US eyes, isn’t it? Meanwhile, in Eastern Europe, boys are being brought up to exercise domestic violence as they are encouraged to take the traditional walk from house to house, demand the women of each house to gather and then beat them up with a willow plaited stick. I swear I’m serious. Another tradition to make one sick, no matter what eyes you look at it with.
I’m happy to report that I didn’t receive any beating on the Easter Monday. It wouldn’t surprise me greatly if random strangers had tried to call, as it’s the tradition, but I was safely tucked away at the top of my ivory (brick, actually) tower (building, actually), with the door bell muted and minding my own business. Not minding my own business well enough, I ventured on Facebook and scrolled through a few posts. One of them was a complaint from an otherwise sensible person who was disparaged that she received a work-related email on the day of the Easter holiday. The point seemed to be that you are not supposed to work on holidays. (Let’s have a moment of silence now to let it sink in.)
So. Now. Please. Someone tell me why I shouldn’t work on holidays? Is this a new phenomenon that I’m missing, as I missed the spread of Eggstasy? Does it have to do with religion, which my barbaric background doesn’t allow me to appreciate? Has the socialist regime returned when I wasn’t looking? That one would explain it neatly. The last time I checked though my landlord still capitalistically demanded that I pay my rent (let’s insert a heart-felt passage of social inequity and other facts of life here). To conclude with a shocking revelation, I hereby assert that as long as I need to work to live, I shall work at any time I please. Also, I can’t help chuckling that I’m asserting my right to work.