" . . . . But the spiritual dangers I have enumerated are not the only ones which beset the savage. Often he regards his shadow or reflection as his soul, or at all events as a vital part of himself, and as such it is necessarily a source of danger to him. . . . "
Sir James George Frazer, "The Golden Bough", Chapter XVIII, Section 3
I hated that job. I hated it from to top to the bottom, from the East to the West, from the beginning to the end, from the inside to the outside, up one side and down the other and along each and every last of the 360 degrees of the compass and all of its constitutent minutes, seconds, radians therein.
Even in my dreams the loathesome voices of venal, mundane clients would crawl into my ears. The endless luncheons listening to blather. About their faded high school sport glories. About how they'd just discovered a "whole new paradigm" to "leverage latent workforce efficiencies". Constant vanities, petty politics, veiled intrigues. "Have you figured out why that other guy's calc's are wrong yet?"
But I was exhausted, broken and demoralized. As much as I loathed the very thought of having to sit through another board meeting trying to conjure a spark of enthusiasm from my flinty soul, it really felt like there simply was no other option. As I dragged my dead *ss from the bed and shifted my weight listlessly toward the bathroom for my morning toilette, I could only think about how the busy season was closing in fast, and how three other project managers had quit the previous week. Even if I had identified some other, more promising position, I didn't see how I could just up and leave the team at that moment. Somehow I would have to hold on, coast on the fumes, skillfully ride the oncoming currents and glide the crew to a safe landing home, like some wounded flyboy in a cheesey WWII melodrama.
Yeah, right. When I looked at my face under the pale light of the washroom mirror, I looked less like a young Montgomery Clift and more like a mouldering stuffed canary with mangey patches of missing feathers. And a pudgy one at that, with baggy eyes and wiry five o'clock shadow.
"Lord," I thought out loud as I stared stupidly at the shaving water spiraling its way down the drain. "I hate that f*cking job to my very soul."
"Amen." A hollow, tinny, echo-like voice from the mirror above me.
My guts sank to the floor.
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