Stop running around and suddenly then you have to stand still. Amazing how things work out that way.
Stuck at Woodrow’s Washateria another afternoon, a man started talking to me, folding his bright red boxer briefs, his large collection of joke t-shirts, telling me about how he’s “figuring out his shit, you know? … Like what do I really want to do.”
He said it as if expecting a badge of some sort, as if he had attained a deeper state of self-reflection that said just working was no longer enough.
You know what he talked about next? Sales per capita at his company, how the new way of filing reports takes his phone time down, and therefore, his sales numbers.
Trying to get my feet to stop fidgeting, I end up watching my piles of wet clothes flip around in the dryer, and yeah, I’ll admit that for a second, I saw some metaphor there. We’re all just drying, not hung out anymore, but faster now, flipping, swooshing… I shrugged it off. C’mon now. You can do better. Shrugged that off too.