THERE WAS A COLLEAGUE that I once worked with who was constantly spinning his wheels. He always seemed to be working hard, yet he was always behind, always playing catch up, always needing help to get his workload done. Movement doesn’t necessarily translate into progress. My cohort was simply incapable of properly planning how to get through his responsibilities in a manageable, sensible, timely manner. We would waste time unnecessarily; he would talk too much; he would permit others to talk too much; he would allow others with whom he was having to interface to prolong things beyond what was needed to complete a task. The upshot was that, by noon on any given day, by which time he should have accomplished a major portion of his daily to-do list, he would already be lagging behind. He did not possess the wherewithal to do better during the afternoon so that he’d catch up. As a result, others of us would be wrapping up our day and heading home while he was still sweating over what he ought to have completed by then. My lasting image of this poor fellow is a worried expression, sweat on his brow, his hair tousled, perhaps a ketchup stain on the front of his shirt from a rushed lunch, surrounded by over-strained staff staring at their watches and shaking their heads. If I could have, I’d have given him a trip to a time management seminar for a gift. Or a less demanding job.
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Ostomy Memories of Spinning Wheels
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