Last week I was biking home, fighting the wind for every metre. It got me thinking about resistance - how some of us go through life fighting while others sail by without a scratch. That’s never true; we all face adversity in some form or another. But there are days when we can’t help but thinking it.
All I want to do is go home. I've been dreaming about it since I watched the early birds shuffle sleepily onto the bus. And when I opened my laptop and set to work clearing the emails that magically appear overnight. Dreams of my sofa and the half-finished bottle of wine cooling in the fridge came when I presented my weekly update and when I sat pretending to listen to the others after me.
"Any questions," Lauren's voice is loaded with condescension. I shake my head and smile.
"Okay, well see you next week. I'm going home to pack." 'Lucky you' almost falls out of my mouth.
Why do some people - those within touching distance of ourselves - experience life so differently? Life comes so easy for Lauren. She has the job, the family, the heritage, the husband, and all without the constant resistance that plagues me. Her life is all surprise weekend trips, unexpected inheritance money from a long-forgotten uncle, and pats on the back at parent's evenings.
"Knock, knock," she's hovering at the end of my desk, ready to leave.
"You don't have to say when you do it," she always does both.
"Aha, I know, old habit."
"So, what can I do for you?" I say, looking up at her towering figure. How does she manage to look this good on a Thursday afternoon?
"Well, I need someone to stay here tonight." it's just like her to ask that with her coat on and a bag in her arm. Although, I suppose she's not even asking.
"You mean for the Q&A?"
"Yeah. I know our investors always love seeing you." she leans closer to whisper in my ear. "Greg definitely fancies you." Greg definitely does, but if only he knew how repulsive he was: divorced twice with an affinity for skinny jeans, v-neck T-shirts and festival bracelets.
"Sure," escapes my lips, and I feel the regret fill my chest. Why am I such a people-pleaser? And for people I have no intention of pleasing - I can't help myself.
"Great! Well, have a good week. I'll see you on Wednesday!" My eyes follow her out the door; as it closes behind her, they settle on the clock fixed above it: twenty past three. Ding, my laptop is calling for my attention. It's Lauren, fixing the Q&A in my calendar - letting the whole company know. Now I really have to make an appearance. Laughter erupts from the other side of the office; I'm not the cause, but the timing seems suspect.
"Bye, see you tomorrow," Marie says, slipping out before she misses her train or gets asked to stay. Greg has always been keen on her too. She's a younger version of myself.
"Good luck tonight. I hope it's not too much of a drag." Tim has always been one of the nicest characters in this office.
"Want to take my place?"
"No chance. Besides, you're the chosen one." Okay, he's no saint, but at least he's honest. There's no need to read between the lines with him.
Only four of us are left when the clock strikes six: the boss, his minion, a keen intern, and myself. I'm pleased about the intern; if it wasn't for him, I would be moving tables and opening bottles.
"Do you know how long this is going to take?" I ask the boss. I've caught him at a good time - sipping his first beer.
"Why, you got somewhere to be?"
"Home."
"Argh, I don't know why you love being at home so much. Don't you live alone?"
"Yes, and that's precisely why I like it."
"Fair enough. It shouldn't take too long. We'll greet everyone, I'll present for twenty, we can shmooze for half an hour, then you can slip out. Just give Greg ten minutes. He loves you, and he has deep pockets."
"He doesn't love me. He loves how I look."
"In this case, they are the same thing. Here." He pops the cap of a fresh bottle and hands it to me. He's always been a dick, but there are moments when he seems to say - 'I know it's shit but get it done quickly, and we'll all be better off.' Which isn't the best compromise, but it's something.
The party of wealth arrives while I'm finishing off my second beer. For a couple of minutes, I think I've dodged a bullet; Greg isn't here. But just as I'm thinking about smiling, he strolls in. I watch him snake through the room, shaking hands, sprinkling everyone with small talk before he makes a B-line for me.
"Looking as good as ever," he starts.
"That's kind of you to say. How are you? Beer?" I already have two in my hand. At least I'll deny him the view of my bending into the fridge.
"Can I have a cold one?"
"These are, have a feel," I say and press one against his cheek.
"Right you are," he's a little rattled by the close contact. Or maybe it's the shock of the cold.
"I was hoping you'd be here. The boss tells me you've been doing some interesting work."
"He said that did he?"
"Yeah, he speaks very highly of you," he speaks highly of everyone when he speaks to investors. There's no use in complaining to them.
"That's good to hear. Have you been out on the boat lately?" Greg is your classic rich fifty-year-old. He drives a Tesla, he lives just outside the city, and he owns a yacht.
"We took her out last month. Sailed around Sicily. You'll have to come with us one day..."
Ding, ding, ding. The boss is ready to give his dull presentation. For once, I'm happy about the distraction. As usual, it's littered with grammar mistakes and heavy with memes and giphs. I'm not sure how he's convinced a soul to entrust him with their cash. But it works - it always does. Bursts of laughter greet his simple jokes, and intelligent heads nod at his baseless graphs.
"So, I think it's safe to say this year will be our best yet! We hope you'll continue your support, and together, we can reach new heights." what a load of bollocks. Everyone stands and rushes the boss for a kind word, a firm handshake, or both. I see my opportunity. Even Greg is preoccupied. It's too risky to grab my bag from my desk; it would involve cutting through the crowd. So I head for the door, pinch my coat from the hangers, and step outside. I'm on my bike pushing myself out of the car park when I look back - I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. The boss sees me, and I pause, ready to scamper back inside and plead for forgiveness. He's talking to Greg; I recognize the bald patch he's trying - and failing -to cover. The boss gives me a wink, and I set off again. But even now, after a day of jabs, resistance and daydreaming, I'm met with one more challenge. The wind - a perfect metaphor. I've spent all my life pedalling straight into it; this is just one more gruelling journey. But at least I have a couple of beers in my stomach to power me through.
Love, Luke