Recently I was talking to my wife about what would happen if our home burnt down. And reflecting on this. The only thing that I would be worried about is losing all my hard drives filled with photographs of our memories. Everything else I couldn’t care about. Like if our home burnt down, I wouldn’t be sad or angry, I’d just be annoyed that I needed to call the insurance company and do all that paperwork. I literally have no attachments to the thing in our home. And my wife said, “I wouldn’t call that a flex, like that’s sad.” But in my mind it isn’t and here is why.
I’m running through the double doors at work, looking at my watch, thinking to myself as I sprit through the hallways “Not again, not this time” as I reach my destination, room 104. I stop, get my breath then swallow, the build-up of salver in my mouth, I reach for the cold silver door handle, turn it an step through. My stomach drops everyone is already there, waiting around a table. One disapproving face looking at me. I’m late for another meeting.