I don’t get paid nearly enough money to repeatedly bail out the behinds of inept co-workers with laissez-faires attitudes about deadlines and thoroughness.
Why are the weak coddled on a project left unfinished and the strong criticized on a job well done? Who’s running this place?
Don’t bother answering those questions; I’m in a Monday mood.
I’m not sure what I am searching for. I just know that I haven’t found it yet.
I climbed 175 stairs at work today; I also descended 150. Yesterday I took on 75 each way. The days prior I averaged 100 in either direction.
Each step isn’t tall, but I still cope with fatigue and achy glutes right after climbing so many in a row.
Feel the burrrrn!” my inner voice commands. “Swing those arms! Lift those legs! Go faster!”
I walk past at least three sets of elevators every day and opt for this harassment — I mean, exercise. I’ve been committed to the routine since I started my new job three weeks ago. Yet I have no less meat on my bones to show for the exertion.
A mundane day at work yesterday was salvaged by a lunchtime conversation related to NPR.
My co-worker mentioned that she heard of the book “Not Quite What I was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs from Writers Famous and Obscure” on public radio. This style of storytelling — consisting of just six words — is a variation of Flash Fiction.
For example, Ernest Hemingway once wrote this tale: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” (I could cry over its poignancy.)
So naturally, upon hearing of the method, the four employees sitting at the round table silently began to concoct their own story. I haven’t finished mine yet; it’s a memoir.
But here are a few of my favorites from others:
He read his obituary with confusion.
Three to Iraq. One came back.
Longed for him. Got him. Shit.”
What’s your story?
My feet told me today that I am an old woman. Actually, considering the suffering they endured, my feet screamed that I am an old woman, a dumb old woman who thinks she can still get away with wearing pointy-toe stiletto pumps to work.
I have a closet full of beautiful, colorful, fun heels. A majority of them are dusty and depressed — I’ve neglected them since moving to St. Louis about two years ago. Each time I opened my closet and saw them neatly lined along the shelves, I thought about being younger, and thinner. At least thin enough to have never felt the anguish of today, as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, attempting to allow some sort of reprieve for my tired toes and soles.
It hardly worked.
I had two thoughts consume me all day:Â
I’m going to die.” and,
“Thank god flats are in fashion.”Â
