As a matter of fact, yes, I am a visual thinker. Here, I’ve drawn a Venn diagram. See the two circles? One represents the subject focus of this role, and the other represents my personal passions.
As you can tell, they do not overlap.
My working style can best be described as strategic slacking. Quiet quitting is a major problem in today’s society, I agree. That’s why I advocate for a more modern solution. The strategic slacking way is about doing only what is absolutely necessary and never participating in team happy hours. I would rather self-immolate than post a picture with my colleagues on LinkedIn. The only thing I disrupt is logical thought.
If working from home is so bad for me, why do I love it? As far as I’m concerned, the office is where I go when I want to listen to my colleagues chewing. (I don’t.)
I have never made a single data driven decision in my life. I refuse to optimize.
Why am I here? I ask myself that every day.
When I was in eighth grade, I shared my dream with my English teacher. My dream was to become a truck driver, which remains the only entry-level position with a private office and nap space. The open road, infinite audio books and packets of too-salty rest stop trail mix: that was my dream.
“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Gonzales told me. “I would not feel safe on the highways knowing you were operating an 18-wheeler.”
Fair enough. The problem with my dreams is that I have too many, and they will consistently distract me from any task I attempt. The roads of our nation are safer when all I operate is an Outlook account and a phone.
Risk taking? If I did that, I wouldn’t be here.
Feedback? Again, no. At this point in my life I will not be incorporating new ideas, but I’ll be professional enough to smile and say thanks when you offer some.
How many golf balls can fit in a jet? Hm. I’m picturing one. One so large it becomes a star, collapses on itself, forms a black hole, swallows the jet and both of us, propelling us into a new world where we drive a truck together in alternating shifts and fight over audio books. When you suggest something dumb, like a business book, because I want to listen to Goliarda Sapienza, I will yell at you. Then I’ll feel bad, so when we pull into a rest stop, I’ll use my treat-money to buy your favorite candy even though I only have enough for one treat and I won’t be able to buy the salty-nuts. We’ll share the apology candy and return to the road.
It would be a cold night in the cab. We crack the windows open to stay awake amid the monotony of it all. We’d have to drive at high speeds to reach the Nebraskan warehouse before dawn and risk fines. Fines that could cost us our leveraged truck, our entire livelihood. Terrified and bored at the same time, we drive. Forget about the extra debt we took on for our CDLs. Think only about how when we shake the last two candies out of the package they will both be our favorite flavor (red). Everything rides on making it to the warehouse by dawn. We can’t stay mad. I let you play the business book and when the author explains how to answer a question like how many golf balls can fit in a jet I would finally know what I was supposed to tell you a lifetime ago.
Maybe then we would wish we had desk jobs in the city that would treat us to team drinks and we’d be happy to post a picture on LinkedIn and feel good about the account we closed or deal we won or whatever. Or maybe we would savor the lingering sweetness in our saliva and be grateful for the company—even accidental—on a cold and lonely path.
That’s how my thought process works.
Anyway, let me know about the next steps. I’ll be here until the latter of either when I turn 65 or die.
