They tell meet we’re all headed back to the office. And while the timeline is predictably fluid, I better finish up painting my antique carousel drying in the garage. That and any other hobby horses I’ve yet to finish in the time away from the watchful panopticon of corporate control.
Many within the walled fields of full-time employment are carefully looking through their closets and drawers, unsure of what to wear. They’ve lost the use of their mirrors, incapable of making basic daily decisions without assistance. They will call in sick, not even bothering to feign working from home. However, I have it all figured it out.
The epiphany occurred doing something I rarely do. No, it wasn’t sanding the aforementioned carousel to remove trace amounts of toxic lead. Nor was it during a gluey craft session concentrated on birdhouse construction. It was during the final round of the PGA championship. At first, I became incensed at the program, cursing the golfers for never once stopping to admire the scenery, opting only to chase their tiny balls along the vast greenery. But then I saw something. Each golfer had long, tortured conversations with their bag butlers. People generally known as “caddies.” I was enraged at the sight, believing golf consists of twin solitary affairs: man versus nature, man versus God. Then I began to see that the golfers were enjoying talking to someone about the wind, the landscaping, and the curvature of the earth. Wouldn’t that be nice?
It would be. And it could be. Plenty of people are still out of work. Why should golf be the only profession that relies on the caddy? Caddies in the workplace could help anticipate an oncoming printer jam or an inevitable toilet clog. They could assess an out-of-order elevator, not from the point of view of an expert, but merely an annoyed observer. Plus, they could assist plenty of CEOs with their short game. Carpet putting isn’t without its obstacles. Like say, looking like a complete fool.
Why read the room if you can’t read the green?
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