Okay I get it. It’s zen and you need it.
The orange sherbet active-polo and business shorts tell me what kind of man you are. You’ve got places to be and meetings to attend and don’t even mention the wife and kids. And it’s 11:30 pm on a flight to Reno and your life is stressful and you need a release. Maybe that’s what purpose the game serves and maybe that’s why you love it so much.
I see you, my friend, controlling the comings and goings of corporate pawns with a thoughtless swipe of the finger. I watch the practiced eye roll with every other email and I hear your sighs. The leather portfolio you placed on the seat between us tells me that you’re a serious man with serious worries — stock prices on the Chinese market or weather the craft beer market is ever going to burst and what you can do to monetize it before that happens. The stress is sitting there in the corner of your eyes, threatening to push it’s way out. Your posture sucks and your little jumps every time someone brushes past has me, frankly, a little worried for you. Too much coffee and not enough ZzzQuil at the last RELEVANT RENOVATION SYNERGY 2014 conference in Tulsa, I’m thinking.
But the problem isn’t with the job or the long hours or even the fact that you don’t get to hit the golf course as much as you’d like. The problem is that empty phone holster hanging off your leather Dockers belt. The problem is there’s no phone in it, because it’s in your hand. And it has been, since we left Phoenix.
It’s two hours later and we’re on the tarmac and I’ve been staring at you, friend. I’ve been watching, waiting hoping. I’ve been dreaming that for one instance, maybe a minute or two, you’d life your eyes off the little winking numbers on your screen and take a look around. But you haven’t. Two hours, ten or eleven Sudoku games — all of which you’ve lost — and no glances. No thank you to the attendant who brought you your Bloody Mary (side note, who the hell drinks Bloody Mary’s at 11 at night), no wayward gaze out the window to the moon, the stars, the lights underneath. Nothing.
I don’t want to judge, friend. I don’t know your life or your problems or what kind of pills your popping. But I can’t help but notice that you’ve got some weight on your shoulders and I couldn’t help but read the text messages your wife sent you. I tried not to hear the deep sigh that followed, or watch your eyes roll and shoulders drop, but I just couldn’t help myself.
And I couldn’t help but wonder if your Number Wizard aspirations, your solution to the problem or maybe your OCD way of passing time, is getting in the way of you solving these problems. I couldn’t help but look at the stars out the window behind you, the clouds and the dark sky and the baby sitting one seat up, and get a little sad. I can’t help but wonder what would happen to your eyes, your brain, your life, if you’d just look around a little more.
You’d trip over less bags on the way out, that’s for sure.