Stick With It

I’m at that penultimate point in my life when I send out engraved announcements saluting my accomplishment if I should happen to recall where I parked my car at the mall. It also a major victory when I manage to push the little red pill through the blister pack, figure out how to coax coffee from the automatic drip pot, or get up from the floor without requiring the assistance of two kitchen chairs, a large dog, and an emergency responder team.

One of my greatest triumphs is singlehandedly locating my remaining pair of eyeglasses, a clever piece of accessory-type tomfoolery that hides in the laundry basket, behind the sugar canister, or on top of my head. They are trifocals, a fancy optical term that means I can’t read the newspaper through three lenses just as well as I can’t read through one. The only things I really need them for is to convince the nice policeman that I’m wearing my corrective lenses just like the troubled lady in my drivers license picture, and to locate the yellow adhesive notes that I’ve planted around the house like daisies to tell me what I’m supposed to do and when I’m supposed to do it.

My house looks like a butter factory exploded with all those little yellow pats of color stuck everywhere. At the office, I keep a row of notes affixed to my computer monitor to help me remember to accomplish important tasks (Becky, lunch, 11:45) as well as trivial ones (Boss meeting with District Superintendent,10:30).

Once, a younger, self-assured man who still stands up very straight without making noises reminiscent of a movie theatre corn popping system in action, informed me that post-it notes were no substitute for a more organized planning system. I agree.

And if I could afford a butler who would stand smartly at the door and drop my keys in my hand before I got to the car, fill my travel mug with whatever liquid I’ve been warming in the microwave all morning, and remind me which direction I should turn out of the driveway to get to the bank, I would dwell in a special kind of Nirvana.

Perhaps one day when I’m digging in the garden I will unearth a treasure trove of forgotten doubloons that I could use to acquire such a man. Until then, a sticky note on the front door will have to do the trick.

As for the know-it-all who thought my post-its were past due? I’m looking forward to the day when he has to explain to his employer that he missed the important meeting because he transposed the dates in his daily planner and confused his proctology exam with his performance appraisal.

Now that's a happy ending.

I recently encountered a studious and official-looking survey designed to tell me whether I was experiencing burnout at work due to excessive stress. I knew it was a trustworthy and unbiased survey because I found it on the Internet.

On my first attempt to take the survey, the computer rejected my answers and diverted me to an advertisement for fake Rolex watches. I tried a second time and saw my answers dumped in favor of a screen offering a tidy sum of money from a recently widowed Nigerian Mary Kay representative. The third time, the survey recorded my answers quite cheerfully until I was halfway through, whereupon the creature swallowed up my multiple choices and pronounced me moderately stressed. It was half right. My lightning-fast response resulted in a serious keyboard malfunction. Now the j, k, and l keys are stuck. Between my fingers.

I decided right then and there to come up with my own stress test. You may be suffering from workplace burnout if you are guilty of harboring any of the following scientifically developed ideas:

You set your swipe card to stun.

You refer to your boss’s wife as “the next of kin.”

You experience copier rage when someone leaves the machine jammed, and carve drawings of pirate flags complete with skull and crossbones into the paneling of the copy room door as a warning to others.

You drive a 1964 Rambler that won’t show noticeable marks should you accidentally sideswipe the Porsche belonging to the guy that always takes the last cup of coffee.

You mutter “Make my day,” and shoot a round from the staple gun at the telephone if it rings at quitting time. Or any other time.