The 250 Square Foot View

By Bobby Calise

At the end of senior year, my high school held an awards ceremony to recognize its students for various school-related accomplishments. And when I say “awards ceremony,” I mean something less like the glitzy red carpet Oscar night and more like the ones they give out the week before for the technical stuff that no one cares about. I was slated to receive an award for perfect attendance—not just for high school, but from grades 1 to 12. That’s right: for 2,160 straight school days, I raised my hand and said “Here!”

No one really cared much about my streak aside from my family. In fact, most of my fellow students were appalled when I told them I’d been to school so often. (Much like you’re probably thinking right now.) But nevertheless I was finally getting some credit. When they called me up to the stage, I couldn’t help but be a little proud of myself. I went up and collected my cheap fake wood plaque and studied it carefully. After all, it would be hanging from the wall of my corner office someday, right? And there it was, in writing: “Perfect Attendance Award, Robert Calise.”

As most of my friends know, my legal name is Bobby, not Robert. I am regularly mistaken for a Robert and I’ve accepted it. It happens, the same way Ryans are often called Brian, and Saras with no “H” hate when people add one. (Note: I have very much NOT come to terms with someone spelling it “Bobbi.”) The Robert thing was an honest mistake, but not a mistake I wanted to see on what was then a lifetime achievement award. It was then that I started to realize that no one was taking my perfect attendance as seriously as I was…and I couldn’t remember why I was.

Ultimately my perfect attendance started out of necessity. For my mom, as for many parents of New York City school children, the school system is a free babysitting service. This is why it’s news when the City schools close for snow days. If my brother or I stayed home, that meant she stayed home. And that meant using up a precious sick day. Sick days mean nothing children, of course. As a kid I had no concept of time off because I had so much of it myself. It was only when I started working that I realized that not everyone gets 200 days a year off, including the entire summer. (My mom would eventually become a teacher, so she actually would have off when we had off.)

Anyone who works in an office setting can tell you that most sick day policies are flawed at best. At my job, I get five sick days that I can use any time from January to December; if I don’t use all five of them, I lose the remainder and start back at five in January. This incentivizes me to miss work five times during the course of the year. Some companies pay their employees for unused sick days. This incentivizes people to come in when they are sick, because calling out means literally giving up free money. I’ve heard of companies that don’t count sick days at all—you simply take what you need and show up when you’re feeling better. Regardless of the system, every employee’s goal is to make the most out of his sick days, sick or not.

So how many sick days did I take last year? None.

One reason for my reluctance is that I’ve been conditioned to think that all sick days are fake. And so when I finally do take one, I feel like the other people in my office are assuming that I’m running all over town chiding a snooty maitre d’ for his rudeness, or joyriding in a borrowed sports car that is so choice. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve failed to recognize that a mental health day is as important if not more important as a physical one. At one point, I actually thought I’d be recognized for this mini-version of my original attendance accomplishment. Robert, I’ve noticed that you haven’t taken one sick day all year. Great job, keep it up!

In the end, sick days will always be about my own discretion and what I’m comfortable with, and I’d suggest everyone makes good use of theirs the way I plan to with my own. These days, the only fear I have when it comes to sick days is that if I take one, I may never go back.