I’ve been wandering around the dusty corners of life, keeping my corner of the universe as tidy as I can, re-adapting to the daily commute and being back in an office environment full of gaggling coworkers and a few non-gaggling ones as well. I was luckily able to work remotely during the pandemic, but now it’s all hands on deck, Delta variant be darned apparently. My colleagues are generally nice people, and a few I like more than others, but this introvert cannot handle gaggling-giggling-goggling nonsense for more than a few hours when working. Then it’s just time to break out Green Eggs & Ham, join the Ministry of Silly Walks and call it a day. I work better alone in my quiet writing room, in other words. But one can adapt. Eventually, I’ve heard.
I took a phone call at work the other
day, week, month (what is time?). On the other end of the line was a very prestigious person. Like, sparkly titles, important looking framed papers with random Latin, shiny pieces of metal strung with ribbons that make your neck itch–that kind of thing. It was the first time I had spoke to said person, and I was helping them complete a project: “Do this, not that. No, that goes there; yes you’ve done it now. No, no you fool! Oh, it’s a disaster now; we’ll have to start over. Did wild hyenas raise you? Give it here…just turn off your monitor and go home.”
While I asked questions to help them, they confessed something that struck me: “I’m not sure about many things” the caller said with a jovial, laissez faire chuckle. If this had been a comedy sitcom, that’s where I would have turned in my dainty chair and did a perfectly timed disbelieving blink, staring aghast into the camera lens. Then the audience would have roared and applauded, and the sitcom would have moved on to another scene.
“That’s a cut, Mrs. Author. Well done! Now, we’ll rehearse the scene where they give you a project that’s due in less than twenty four hours. Short notice is always such a hoot!”
This being real life, I instead quickly recovered myself, grabbed the football and ran it down to the end zone, post haste. Then I tossed the football down and did a lively dance, remembered I hate football analogies, and hung up. We got the project done. Six points for us, and here’s the question for the extra field goal point:
Do any of us actually know what we’re doing? You kick and…we wait for the answer.