So I was making multigrain sandwiches Sunday at work. Part of the usual routine at Target. I get out the bread and lettuce, cut the meat, tomato and cheese, then assemble the sandwich. When that’s done, I seal them up in the proper boxes. From there I go to the scales, where I print up price labels for the whole thing. Punch in a nine number sequence and out they come.

You’d think this all would be boring. It isn’t, at least for me. There’s something about filling up shelves one day and finding those same shelves empty the next that’s really satisfying.

I try to make a lot of product. That particular Sunday I made up I believe eight full sandwiches and eight half sandwiches. Everything went smoothly. No customers came up to bother me. Things went well.

Right up until I made the labels.

Making the labels weren’t the problem. They were cued up and came out just like clockwork.

It was only after I put a few labels on that I noticed a problem.

They read Ham and Swiss.

I hadn’t cut any Swiss.

I distinctly remember cutting up Havarti.

I look over my prep table. There sat sixteen boxes I had to open up and replace the cheese in. This is not an easy process. The boxes are a bear to open up. Then there’s cutting up the Swiss, putting it in the sandwich, and so on. So much time wasted. So much food wasted. 

Oh well. What can you do, right?

So I start to reach for one of the labeled boxes when something else occurred to me.

Yes, I didn’t cut up any Swiss. I also didn’t cut up any Ham.

I had made Turkey and Havarti sandwiches. The nine number sequence for which was right near the Ham and Swiss sequence.

I’d given the printer the wrong numbers and got the wrong labels.

So instead of screwing up a bunch of sandwiches, I caught myself before screwing up a bunch of sandwich boxes.

Not that that’s a big deal. I just like going from feeling really, really stupid to felling only kinda stupid. Nice change of pace, really…

Life throws you some curves.

Today when I woke, the temperature was down to -15 degrees, with a wind chill of -40. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wind chill that low, and if I had, it was decades ago.

So for the third time this week, I’ve called off work.

The other two times felt right. They were talking blizzard, blowing snow. Not only did it not feel safe, it seemed really, really unwise.

Today? It still does feel unsafe, but I’m doubting my decision.

All I can think of is a fall I had outside last week. I wasn’t hurt, I bounced back well and good. But I could have done myself an injury.

The roads are slick. Accidents happen to even the most careful driver. I can’t tell you how many winter’s I’ve been out and there are cars and trucks off roads.

They say you can get frostbite out in this cold in less than ten minutes. I’ve got good winter clothes to fall back on, but even those go only so far.

My commute to work on good days is something like 19 minutes. That’s a long ways to go. And I know some people do it. I just don’t want to risk it.

Ten years ago I might have done it. Maybe even five. But I’m not that young.

I feel very chicken calling in. I feel like I might be risking a good job. But my gut says stay home and inside. It also says most people will, and they won’t need me quite as bad as a normal day.

We’ll see what happens. If I lose this job, I lose this job. I really don’t think I will–I’ve been given complements so far during my time there–but what will be, will be.