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Story (Work)

She’s moving meetings again.

Your employer wanted a meeting to discuss a recent meeting, so you set up the new meeting. But then that new meeting needed to be shortened, moved, and renamed, and then, on the day of Meeting about the Meeting, there was again a late change, such that the other participants in the meeting, who never wanted the meeting, were flummoxed and disgruntled. “It takes two to tango,” say several sage observers. And: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” But what would the solution be? 

One answer: Make your face very, very blank. In the Tonya Harding movie, the assailant says, “I made myself blank before I went for the kneecap, because when you’re blank, everyone around you calms down.” So: Your employer says, “Write me a reminder to call my dentist. I have a toothache.” Surely this exceeds the parameters of your job description? Surely the toothache is itself its own reminder? Surely a simple phone call, then and there, in the moment, would obviate the need for all reminders? Think none of this. Empty your brain. Privately chant, “Blank face. Blank face. Blank face.” Chekhov says, “In reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our existence.” In your head, chant: “Dignity. Dignity. Dignity.”

Or: There is Raymond Carver, dealing with his senile mother. Late in life, she would always find everything unsatisfactory: The icebox didn't work. The air-conditioner shot out hot air. Carver would exhaust himself with (useless) practical advice--till he recalled what his own father would say when The Ball and Chain would become irrational. He would adopt a soothing tone. He would say, “Dear. Dear, try not to be afraid. Try not to worry so much.”

Spend money. Overeat. Consider new hobbies, or resumed hobbies, such as running! Or making your own YouTube series. A YouTube series! Or: what if you became *politically* involved?

Think too much about death. About the possibility of feeling imprisoned in your own body--having a functional mind and a worthless body, a worthless tongue, a tongue unable to say, “Get me out of here.”

Write it all down, as a source of momentary relief. Sigh. Sip your coffee. Carry on.

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