Working

So here’s what I did today: nothing. No, I’m serious. Sure, I went to work, and I sat there all day, but mostly I played solitaire and tried to look busy, as if Jesus were coming. I asked a couple of questions; got up and walked quickly down the hall, file in hand, as though attending to something urgent; spread file folder and papers over one half of my desk, shuffling through them occasionally. I call them my “props.” Seriously.

I know, I sound like that character from the Dilbert cartoons, who always has some complicated excuse as to why he can’t do anything anyone asks him to do—i.e. why he can’t work, because he is, ostensibly, working. But that is not why I am not working. I have asked for work—repeatedly, over the course of several months. I also worried, for months, that I would get laid off because I very clearly had nothing to do. But now I’ve given up asking and, for the most part, worrying.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some papers to shuffle through.

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