Walking On Eggshells

At the outset of my career, I thought walking on eggshells was part of the gig. You strip down to your bare feet, placing your socks and shoes in a safe place, and hit the warpath. The thinking was that it’s far easier to traverse eggshells without the poundage of an industrial clodhopper. The point, after all, was not to pound the shells into dust.

Or so I thought. Whenever I landed a new job, I was careful not to ruffle any feathers either. But the more I analyzed the situation, the more I found myself wondering if the same superiors minding their own feathers had once been in the very eggs I was doing my darndest to keep intact. That’d really be something, huh? Either you’re going to carefully walk on eggshells or avoid ruffling feathers. But you can’t do both.

So instead of worrying about cracking eggs, why not accept that no chicken every entered the world through a seamless, eggless process? None of them walked out sans shell. Then how did we get this scared in the business world? Many a southern mansion use clamshells to line their winding garden paths. Would we throw a conniption upon discovery of a quail egg or two whenever a bivalve proved too brittle for the job? I hope not. 

I’m tired of it. Tired of the smell. Tired of picking eggshells out of my nail bed. Then picking nails out of my real bed. What was once a joy is now a chore. Why not bring up those forbidden subjects, picking at them like a hardboiled enthusiast? 

I’ve re-laced my Timberlands, shined and waxed them, fully committed to walking on eggshells with some gusto. You end up cracking them either way – shoe or no shoe. The purpose of any job is not to impress the higher-ups with your diligence and work ethic. It’s to gather up enough eggs for an impromptu quiche, a haphazard frittata, or the bit and pieces for a quick Benedict without the help of hollandaise. 

At lease employers haven’t switched eggshells for hot coals yet. But come winter, you watch.