It struck me Monday, as I prepared to eat my twelve millionth lunch at my desk, that I’d been liberated.
I eat at my desk most days. It’s an absolutely unhealthy thing to do. It’s made worst by the fact that I’m sitting in front of a computer for double-digit hours most days.
Well, because if I don’t the work won’t get done, and I’ll have to work even longer on Sunday, or I’ll fall further behind on something, or one of the million plates I’m juggling will hit the floor …blah, blah, yada, yada.
But on Monday, as I got ready to load a pile of calories into my inert, blobbish form, I realized that in four months my job vaporizes. Whether I ate at my desk or not, the job would be gone. My job has a terminal illness, but I suddenly realized there’s no reason it has to kill me in the process. Instead of concentrating on the death of a job, I decided to concentrate on salvaging my health.
I put my lunch away and drove to the West Pittston Cemetery. It’s a great place to walk and clear the head. I also figured that if I keeled over it would be convenient…they’d only have to roll my blobbish corpse to the nearest grave and drop me in. (Hey, I’m all for efficiency.)
Liberated. I like the sound of that.