Even at the site of a computer, I can feel the primal forces drive me to adjust myself in the sudden tightness of my jeans. I want to think of nothing but work and productivity. I mean, I have things to do. “The problem is,” I think as I break a sweat, “it all has to happen in the same place.” It’s a mixture of both work and pleasure.
As I seat myself, my face boils over. Quaky hands rest their fingers on the keys. The tak tak tak of the typing resonates, my fingers the hammer sounding the bell. It begins. I hear it. The inconvenient burden of my masculinity. The yelping of the dog eager to go outside and play. My work will only keep my hands busy for so long. My rational side tells me I can beat this, but my limbic impulses tell me I’ve already made the decision. I race for a stick of chewing gum attempting to trade one fixation for another.