I don’t know why the Salesforce Chicago office doesn’t allow shorts. I didn’t know why Rightpoint didn’t allow shorts when I was there. But what I do know is that any sense of a dress code has disappeared over the last six months. For a predominant amount of that time, I wore shorts every day; that is, every day until today because my furnace stopped working. Cold and discouraged, I lamented out loud “No more shorts” and sadly put on pants for the first time since early April.
I want to thank my small army of shorts for clothing me these last couple months. You’ve spent a lot of hours sitting in the exact same chair. To my khaki, non-cargo shorts: you’re my go to. I’m sorry there’s a slight tear on the rear seat, but we’ll work on getting that patched soon. To my cargo shorts, thanks for having more pockets than I have needs. To my blue cargo shorts, I’m sorry that pair of scissors ripped through the outer pocket.
To my athleisure shorts, thanks for being pajamas, painting, and project shorts. It’s a weird combo, I know, but you do it so well. I apologize for not calling you up to the major leagues, aka daily wear shorts, but I have standards.
It’s been a fun six months, and while I love my menagerie of jeans, they’re nowhere near as comfy and endearing as you. Good night sweet princes. Rest well in the dresser. I’ll see you in the Spring.
I am steadfast believer in creating SMART goals. I usually write mine down at the beginning of the year. However I must confess that although I write the goals down, and I’m aware of them day to day, I really don’t do the best of holding myself accountable. It’s still a good exercise. This public blog post is a means of keeping myself more accountable than I have in the past.
One goal I had this year was to look at my phone less. That hasn’t gone particularly well. I sadly spend about two hours a day on average staring at this six inch screen in my hands. And if you’re thinking this post is about going cold turkey from my phone, it’s not. I’m going to cut out a major piece of my information diet which I believe in turn is creating a lot of anxiety.
I haven’t written for leisure in a while. I have a lot of ideas and I often jot them down in fits and tantrums. Tonight I have a return of my old posts about what I’m doing during quarantine and I’m going to write under my new title of “Dispatches from Quarantine.”
Four years ago I sat in the Cincinnati airport one night. I don’t travel all the time for work, but I’ve flown to Cincinnati more than any other place. It’s an ok airport. I’m a man of simple pleasures; it’s clean and not crowded, and very easy to get in and out of. But its size also works against it.
When most people think about time travel, the use case is primarily one of two things: visit a family member who is no longer around or prevent a horrific event (i.e. 9/11, the Holocaust). I have what I feel is a novel use case for time travel: travel back in time and befriend the previous owner of my house to prevent them from making poor decisions that I will spend the remainder of my mortgage rectifying.