Down at the office the week before last, I wondered about an annual meeting that tends to take place in early February. One that I begin dreading the first week of January.
This year, by the third week of February, there were
no signs of it. I picked up my straight-out-of-1989 desk phone (which has no
caller ID; I’m petrified every time it rings) and called a co-worker who’s usually
somewhat involved with the meeting’s coordination.
“Just out of curiosity, isn’t this normally the
“Wow, you’re right, thanks for the reminder. I’ll
start routing the emails about it tomorrow.”
“THIS PHONE CALL NEVER HAPPENED, THIS PHONE CALL NEVER
HAPPENED, THIS PHONE CALL NEVER HAPPENED!”
Too late, the meeting got underway less than 48
hours later. With regard to impulsive speak-ups like these, I’m a veteran, welcome to my
war. I’m the most talkative introvert I know. Wearing a muzzle wouldn’t be the
worst tactical approach.
Conveniently enough, my dentist recently prescribed
and issued me a customized nightguard, to control my teeth grinding and
clenching routine. It is virtually impossible to speak clearly while it’s in.
So now it doubles as a dayguard. While on the job, I tend to forget it’s in unless someone says something
that absolutely necessitates a response. This lightweight powerhouse has already paid
The less I talk, the better I plan. The less I talk,
the more I move. The less I talk, the more some of what I’ve heard finally
makes sense. The less I talk, the more likely I am to gaze out my window and
catch the final seconds of another dazzling sunset over the 30 Rock building,
the kind that no amateur photographer can faithfully capture.
Such Masterpieces…My Masterpieces…
1 week ago