Last Friday week, Philly McMahon laid himself off.
A seven-time All-Ireland champion, double All-Star, winner of five National League medals and a Sports Book of the Year award, McMahon is also CEO of BeDo7 Fitness and one of its five full-time employees.
And so with the forced closure of their premises in Finglas, he sat down with staff and they filled out the social welfare forms, came off the company's payroll and made themselves redundant.
Temporarily, he hopes.
"Thankfully," McMahon says, "they were all very understanding."
"It's just something we had to do because of the overheads we have.
"But it's times like this I wish we were back at the very beginning of this, when we just had a small premises and a very small operation."
Small and scattered.
When McMahon first indulged his entrepreneurial impulse still in his early twenties, he conducted fitness classes out of Ballymun Kickhams' facilities on Collinstown Lane.
By 2017, he was running four such operations, with further rental arrangements in Thomas Davis's clubhouse, one with Good Counsel and another at Finglas Celtic.
The big move in 2018 to bring it all together under one 8,000-feet-squared roof just off Exit 5 of the M50 promised centralisation, focus and certainty.
Until two weeks ago.
"It's quite tough at the minute," McMahon admits.
"The one thing that fuels anxiety is uncertainty. And I have that at the moment.
"I don't think I'll ever be stuck, because I'm driven. I definitely think I'd be an asset to any company if I had to shut down.
"But I've spent 10 years building this up. I don't want to lose it now.
"So that uncertainty is hanging over me at the moment."
Now it's entirely possible that McMahon has been busier since signing on than any of the other 350,000 who, it is estimated, will find themselves out of work in Ireland during this deeply weird and uncertain time.
The gym is closed but they still provide remoteservices.
Last Friday at 6am, he conducted a HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) workout class for some of his members via the now ubiquitous Zoom app.
An hour later: same story, different people. Ditto between eight o'clock to nine.
Afterwards, he drove to his empty place of work, opened it up and videoed himself going through the motions of two further classes; one yoga and one a cardiovascular workout, later uploaded to the gym's app for use by their more self-motivated members.
Then McMahon did three further 'live' classes through Zoom at six, seven and eight o'clock from his living room.
"There's so much in it," he says. "I'm basically doing the work of all the staff."
Convincing his customers they can receive a workable solution to their health/fitness requirements online is a challenge.
So far, there has been a 30 per cent drop-off in member numbers but McMahon is enough of a realist to acknowledge that that figure will rise in direct proportion to the length of the shutdown.
Which, he is adamant, is a lost opportunity.
"I don't think people really see the chance they have now, even if it's in unfortunate circumstances," he explains.
"There are people out there who want to get fit and change their body shape who will always struggle to do that because basically, they don't have the time or either the physical or mental energy to put into it.
"Now they have that time. They should be thinking, 'I can get into the best shape of my life, because I have the next eight or ten weeks with nothing else to do'. They might not get this amount of free time again."
With all that and attempting to negotiate a rent freeze to fill his days, it's just as well there is no football to be worrying about.
McMahon has always had an easy knack for compartmentalising the various duties of his existence.
On those hazy mornings after Dublin's All-Ireland wins, as his team-mates arrive blurry-eyed to the lobby of the Gibson Hotel, McMahon can usually be spotted awake, minty fresh and making work calls.
He possesses the ferociously independent streak of someone who penned an autobiography whilst still a playing member of the team with the most clandestine media habits of any in Gaelic games.
Training on his own isn't an issue.
McMahon is a habitual trainer. Most days a week, 52 weeks a year. But the life of an in-season inter-county footballer is a largely prescribed one, where nothing is entrusted to the vagaries of chance.
Every metre run is tracked by GPS. Every morsel of food is weighed.
As it stands, he doesn't even know when he'll see his Dublin team-mates again, let alone the date of their next match.
All he can reasonably predict just now is that one will follow the other with almost unnerving haste.
"It's going to go straight back into it," he observes. "It's going to be weird."
There's no football, but McMahon isn't the sort to find himself at a loose end. He has always considered himself more socially active than politically inclined but lately he has indulged his partisan side.
Last week, he went to the bother of posting a video on his social media channels endorsing Aodhán Ó Ríordáin for leader of the Labour party.
It's an area of deep personal interest. The tectonic shift under the Irish political landscape during the last general election led many to observe he could feasibly have taken a Dáil seat had he run for Sinn Féin.
He doesn't rule out standing for someone at some unspecified stage in the future. But McMahon is neither bound to the ideals of any particular parliamentary party nor attracted to the chicanery of modern politics.
"I've been asked," McMahon confirms.
"And I'm flattered to be asked. But for me, I'm connecting through my sporting profile. And I think I'm having an impact.
"I'm definitely socially motivated," he stresses. "But for me, it's all about whether I can achieve more doing what I'm currently doing now or if I was a politician."
Last April, McMahon did a Ted Talk in Mountjoy Prison and though the next stage is only in its infancy, he has engaged with a major international tech firm about gathering data from prisoners about their life experiences.
The aim is to analyse the information and identify red flags.
"Then," he explains, "we can go into communities and look at kids we think are going to go that way and see the red flags there and correlate them, so that we can say to people, 'This kid is going to end up like this fella in prison. Here are the red flags. Let's invest here'."
Already, he has gained traction with his 'Half Time Talk' movement, aiming to provide programmes and support for youths in disadvantaged areas.
All of it aimed at society's marginalised.
"So there's early intervention," McMahon explains, "there's Half Time Talk for the people who slip through the net, high-risk youths.
"And if they slip through the net again and go to Mountjoy, we'll work with them again, hopefully through this new project.
"So," he goes on, "if I couldn't do those things, yeah, I have the drive inside me that I might consider going down the politics road.
"But if you're a TD, you're a public figure. You're restricted in what you can do by legislation. Whereas we have autonomy."
Working with prisoners has led McMahon towards certain beliefs about how the Irish public will react now to extreme Government-ordered restrictions on their movement for at least the next two weeks.
"We punish people for crimes by putting them in jail, by taking their liberty away," he points out.
"And we're being forced into that now by being told to stay in our homes.
"When people are in jail, their only thought, their only motivation, is to get out. That's their entire objective - get their freedom back.
"And that's what people are going to crave now. And that's why they'll struggle with their mental health."
We've yet to witness the horror of the effect Covid-19 will have on the physical health of the nation but McMahon has immediate concerns here too.
His mother Valerie works providing home help to the elderly and the infirm. He finds himself making at least one phone call a day to her.
"I'd normally do that anyway but it's a priority now every day, especially with my dad not being there anymore," he says, referring to his father Phil's passing from cancer in 2018.
"It's a huge concern for me. But they need her."
Even for some not on the front line of the resistance, the next few weeks will be no less arduous, McMahon predicts.
The sun will rise. The pubs will open. The jobs will re-materialise. But those who are already struggling in silence are the ones McMahon fears could be silently lost between now and then.
"I think the biggest problem is the uncertainty," he points out.
"Studies will show you, it's one of the main contributors to anxiety and depression.
"We've had a mental health epidemic in this country and everyone was being told we need to speak up, that we needed to start saying to people what's on our minds.
"And that's all about making a connection. We need people around us, we need our tribe, and we need to make those connections. But we're starting to lose that connection now because we have to stay away from each other and live in our little bubbles."
"Loneliness can be a really dangerous thing," he warns.
"So it's about reaching out to people who don't have that. That's going to be something that will have a huge cost at the end of this.
"I guarantee you," McMahon adds, "there are people we all know, who we don't think are lonely, but are.
"And reaching out and just talking to people like that… that's going to be really important over the next few weeks."