I recently started working at a the front desk of a neurology office in Mt. Auburn hospital. I make packets to give to patients when they come in, call them to remind them of appointments coming up in a week, take vitals, call other offices for notes on new patients, scan some papers and fax others, check if insurance is active. I staple things a lot. It's dull but I won't get another concussion. As my former boss and family friend said "they pay you more for easier work, right?" - which is exactly the case. Do the paper shuffle till you drop.
In all this route work, I had this moment of child-like surprise when my stapler ran out. A second later I wanted to laugh out loud at the fact that I somehow expected the stapler to never cease stapling.
It really did feel like being a child: I suppose as you grow older there are fewer genuine surprises in store. I certainly didn't expect my surprise to be sourced in a stapler.
I remembered that in kindergarten we had a project were we had to bring in 100 of something (jelly beans, crayons, stickers...) I, inevitably doing it the night before, panicking in a way that seems almost humorously familiar now, having procrastinated on the project which we were likely given at least a month to do, stapled a piece of cardboard 100 times and brought that in. Not very aesthetically pleasing, but it did the job. It was for the 100th day of school. Now everything is counted in months, years, pages written, books read, places lived. 100 days. How quaint. How kindergarten.
(I had one of those flying dreams last night: put on warm clothes but couldn't track down warm socks for the high autumnal air. Was brought into the air by air sweeping up a kite which was held by a string which held me and carried me up until my arms spread out could hold me, along with magical powers, sand I was swept up by the current for hundreds of miles. Landed somewhere and something like a spy movie, or like His Dark Materials not quite clear. I love flying...)
