Nuances of Corporate America
Here I sit.
Work piling in front of me- well not in front of me but in my virtual Inbox- and I can only watch in accumulate. I'd rather be writing my fiction. I'd rather be doing laundry. I'd rather be lying in bed sicker than a dog (which I can truly say, has *happened* in the last 2 weeks).
But yet the work keeps finding me.
Who's idea was it for me to go to back to work full-time anyway? Why did I choose to come back to the gray cubicles with red pin-up boards? Sneaking in back ways so co-workers don't know I just spend an extra ten minutes at lunch dreading my afternoon meetings and schedules. Parking in back parking lots because I can't get myself ready, my son awake, bathed, and dressed, nor my cats and dog fed before 9am each morning to make it into the office to park in the decent parking spots. The perils of motherhood and workinghood.
Then, all day, every day, I reminise about how I used to be able to crank out maybe 100 words on the novel in progress between screaming fits of a two-year-old. I had a plan to write during lunch hours, slow days, or even a half hour or so before I headed home for the day. Those were nothing more than pipe-dreams. Wishes that never come to fruition in real live. I spend my lunches eating (on most days), running errands that didn't get done during working hours, rushing to pay almost late bills, and doing favors for co-workers. Not to mention catching up on my ever-increasingly full schedule. No play time for Mom.
It never ends. I am not niave enough to believe that once the current To-do list vanishes something won't come prancing in to take its place. A long, long time ago I believed that if I kept catching up with my work that one day I would be able to sit back, relax, and have a day off but, at the office. After almost ten years, I know the work just keeps coming. The favors always asked, and the nice, pleasant, compliments coming in to only add more responsibility to to the ever-increasing work load.
Well, well. Back to the Inbox.
Work piling in front of me- well not in front of me but in my virtual Inbox- and I can only watch in accumulate. I'd rather be writing my fiction. I'd rather be doing laundry. I'd rather be lying in bed sicker than a dog (which I can truly say, has *happened* in the last 2 weeks).
But yet the work keeps finding me.
Who's idea was it for me to go to back to work full-time anyway? Why did I choose to come back to the gray cubicles with red pin-up boards? Sneaking in back ways so co-workers don't know I just spend an extra ten minutes at lunch dreading my afternoon meetings and schedules. Parking in back parking lots because I can't get myself ready, my son awake, bathed, and dressed, nor my cats and dog fed before 9am each morning to make it into the office to park in the decent parking spots. The perils of motherhood and workinghood.
Then, all day, every day, I reminise about how I used to be able to crank out maybe 100 words on the novel in progress between screaming fits of a two-year-old. I had a plan to write during lunch hours, slow days, or even a half hour or so before I headed home for the day. Those were nothing more than pipe-dreams. Wishes that never come to fruition in real live. I spend my lunches eating (on most days), running errands that didn't get done during working hours, rushing to pay almost late bills, and doing favors for co-workers. Not to mention catching up on my ever-increasingly full schedule. No play time for Mom.
It never ends. I am not niave enough to believe that once the current To-do list vanishes something won't come prancing in to take its place. A long, long time ago I believed that if I kept catching up with my work that one day I would be able to sit back, relax, and have a day off but, at the office. After almost ten years, I know the work just keeps coming. The favors always asked, and the nice, pleasant, compliments coming in to only add more responsibility to to the ever-increasing work load.
Well, well. Back to the Inbox.
