After weeks and weeks of little beyond data entry and other nominally trainable-monkey tasks at work, I’ve finally gotten something to do of substance. It’s not hard, frankly, but it’s incredibly detailed with a whole lot of if-this-then-that, something I’m fairly good at.
In my excitement to be of use, however, it seems I’ve made some sort of unconscious decision to ignore my bodily functions.
We don’t have to go into details here – I can see you nodding “yes, please don’t” – but I’m willing to bet I’m not the only person who does this.
And I’m not a betting woman.
Wasn’t this a new year’s resolution, to eat when I was hungry; to drink more water; to go to the bathroom, for cryin’ out loud, when needed and before threat of an unseemly accident?
It all started in the mid-60s, when I was but a wee lass. My father was a traveling salesman, his route encompassing Minnesota, Wisconsin, North and South Dakota; and I sometimes traveled with him. That’s a lot of territory, all covered in an ancient Rambler once owned by PT Barnum.
I’m kidding about that.
Dad was interested in “making good time” and kept a book on mileage, gas purchases, and how many miles to the gallon he got. My father, child of the pioneers that he was, scorned the idea of diners, stretching one’s legs, wayside rests or anything that would cause you to use a wayside rest.
My father had the bladder capacity of a – well, of something that never had to pee.
Don’t get me wrong: Dad taught me to read a map by, like, five years of age, and told me fascinating – and sometimes even appropriate – stories about his childhood, his time in the military, and how Gene Krupa had style but Buddy Rich had the chops…
Things have changed, though. I am now allowed to drink water, eat, and relieve myself at my leisure.
Within the limits of social confines, of course.
But here I am again, lots to do and trapped in the passenger seat of the Rambler of my mind.
If I could only get me to pull over.
A Meeting in the Meeting
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