As I drove to the office, I glanced in my rearview mirror to merge to the left. I grew distracted by an errant grey hair amidst my mane of black. I began to plan the strategic removal of the single grey hair. When I took another glance in the mirror, I saw a rusty SUV smash into a little white car behind me. I stared at the mirror in shock and then turned to look out my passenger window to see the SUV race past me and through the changing yellow light. The little white car was left with its trunk peeled off like a potato skin to reveal a colorful Vera Bradley duffel bag, neatly packed inside for a weekend getaway. Red pieces of brake light skittered across the road between braking cars, trying to avoid the wreckage. The white car skidded to a stop with the bumper hanging on by an invisible thread. When the turn-lane light changed, I eased on the gas and slowly rolled by, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver’s face inside of the white car. Perhaps seeing the driver’s shaken face would compel me to take action and call 911 or chase down the SUV and make a citizen’s arrest. Much to my disappointment, I couldn’t see the driver and I didn’t feel compelled to do anything more than speed off to work to quickly pluck a grey hair in the parking lot.
It’s Friday afternoon.
I’m working hard at hardly working, as the maintenance man who comes through every so often encourages me to do with his upstanding example. He passed through the cubicle farm earlier, with a hammer shoved though a loop in his pants and swinging an empty bucket. His whistle carried through the thin cube walls and alerted me that a worry-free individual was approaching. He gave me his usual wink and nod, indicating that we are players on the same team. This was no time to start looking busy.
I have a clear view through my supervisor’s office, because she is clearly not in the office on a Friday afternoon, to the outside. Although I can only see the tips of leaf-barren trees, the sun is out and the sky is blue. If I stare long enough, I’m sure a bird will pass by but I don’t have time for that. Now I have to get back to looking busy because one of my hard working colleagues is approaching.
Luckily, I have a gift; I can hear the difference between regular loafers, like myself, and the industrious employees who might not take kindly to my compromised work ethic. The hard workers, like the one approaching, are noisier and easier to detect because they multi-task as they travel about the office. This one always shuffles papers and wears heels that click and clack a notification of her approach. However, on this fine day, she is wearing athletic pants that swish as she power walks through the office.
The clock is ticking away the minutes towards my freedom. I watch the green glowing numbers slowly change, like a prisoner counts down the years to his release. My gift must be weakening because a slacker just snuck into my cubicle for a few last minute discussions about her weekend plans. I never heard her soft little bedazzled flats until it was too late and she was behind me, reviewing my “case notes.”
Do you have special talents that get you through the long work day? Cheers to perfecting your gifts so you too can covertly blog instead of whatever you are supposed to do. Really, what else is there to do on a Friday afternoon, other than catch up on my favorites and write a little post.
Signing off for the day and wishing all a great weekend spent working hard at hardly working.