I almost hate to write something more current than Things I Would Rather Be Doing, as I don't think I get a lot of traffic here and what there is tends to read to the top, but it struck me that one of my least favorite things is to be frantically busy, and then get morose emails from people saying:
"It seems like we never see each other anymore."
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Things I would rather be doing
It's true, when I work in an office I am making money, and that money allows me to do things. Barring that benefit, it seems like a spectacular waste of time. And mostly, it's because I have created an environment where I don't have to work that hard, even though I'm a person who thrives on challenge. However, I don't want to waste my energy being challenged to make copies or some such nonsense. Hmmmm. A quandry and no mistake.
One of my co-workers has been with this office for thirty-one years. Maybe it's thirty-two. This boggles my mind. Oh, yes, I know everyone is made differently and just because I hate it doesn't mean it isn't ideal for someone else. But this person doesn't seem in any way happy to be here. How can you stay somewhere for 32 years without planning an escape??
Me, I'd rather be:
Sailing down the Ganges.
Hiking in the Andes.
Riding a camel in the Sahara.
Scouring the whaling museum in Nantucket.
I'd rather be on a train taking me to a place I've never been before.
I'd rather be talking to someone who is an expert in some particularly fascinating field: psychology, foreign relations.
I'd rather be watching Open University, or Call My Bluff.
I'd rather be trekking across open fields armed with a very good map, a bottle of water, a sandwich and perhaps some gingerbread.
I'd rather be creating some kind of whimsical and bizarre plan with Tee, something involving disguises and word play and giggling.
I'd rather be cooking something, maybe fresh fish with white wine and lemon, or a pasta salad with herbs I cut out of the front garden.
I'd rather be talking to Anna and Maeve.
I'd rather be cleaning my apartment, a really deep-down clean that smells citrus-y and makes me feel I can control at least the dirt.
And with that, I have given myself a reasonable goal. I have the day off Friday, I shall try to clean. With loud music playing. Singing at the top of my lungs. And mayhap I will make pasta salad for lunch.
That's better.
One of my co-workers has been with this office for thirty-one years. Maybe it's thirty-two. This boggles my mind. Oh, yes, I know everyone is made differently and just because I hate it doesn't mean it isn't ideal for someone else. But this person doesn't seem in any way happy to be here. How can you stay somewhere for 32 years without planning an escape??
Me, I'd rather be:
Sailing down the Ganges.
Hiking in the Andes.
Riding a camel in the Sahara.
Scouring the whaling museum in Nantucket.
I'd rather be on a train taking me to a place I've never been before.
I'd rather be talking to someone who is an expert in some particularly fascinating field: psychology, foreign relations.
I'd rather be watching Open University, or Call My Bluff.
I'd rather be trekking across open fields armed with a very good map, a bottle of water, a sandwich and perhaps some gingerbread.
I'd rather be creating some kind of whimsical and bizarre plan with Tee, something involving disguises and word play and giggling.
I'd rather be cooking something, maybe fresh fish with white wine and lemon, or a pasta salad with herbs I cut out of the front garden.
I'd rather be talking to Anna and Maeve.
I'd rather be cleaning my apartment, a really deep-down clean that smells citrus-y and makes me feel I can control at least the dirt.
And with that, I have given myself a reasonable goal. I have the day off Friday, I shall try to clean. With loud music playing. Singing at the top of my lungs. And mayhap I will make pasta salad for lunch.
That's better.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
A Mystery
Why is it that my family can painstaking slather sunscreen on ourselves and yet inexplicably end up with subburn patches? Stray sections of skin that escape the sunblock and get beaten by the sun instead. After a week of lying on a beach every day, I ended up with strange red markings on my knees, a small patch of red near the elbow on my right arm, and a few stray wisps of burn where suit meets skin.
Once, my brother couldn't find anyone to put sunscreen on his back, and just slapped his own hand across it, only to find the next day that his back was entirely red, save for one white handprint.
I never notice such extra tan sections on other people. Maybe it is genetic.
Once, my brother couldn't find anyone to put sunscreen on his back, and just slapped his own hand across it, only to find the next day that his back was entirely red, save for one white handprint.
I never notice such extra tan sections on other people. Maybe it is genetic.
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