I sat at my desk this morning and cradled my face in my hands.
My sporadic holiday was over. I had officially returned to the enormous G.I. tract I call my cubicle and awaited further digestion.
Being digested by your job is a slow process. For the most part you’re not even aware of slowly being dissolved into tiny bits used as fuel for a larger entity. It’s only when you step out of your weakly acidic (yet compellingly insular) environment that you notice the corrosion.
I’m not saying I have a bad job. I have a good job. But regardless of how good your gig is, you’re still being absorbed to one degree or another; make no mistake about it.
It was quiet at work this morning. But if you listened closely you could hear tiny gurgles.
Hopefully by tomorrow I won’t notice the gurgling.
The girls have a new look. It’s short. When I saw them this morning I was a little alarmed. It looked as if they’d been scrubbed and deloused in preparation for prison. They seem to like their haircuts, though. I have to admit after-bath hair care is now a snap. Instead of wrestling with snarls and tangles my comb just glides through what little hair they have left on their heads.
Julia looks in the mirror and says, “I piddy.”
Piddy the fool who cut off all my hair. . .
By the way, Julia is pooping on her little potty on a fairly regular basis. We’re celebrating each movement as if Alfred Jodl had just signed the unconditional surrender.