You say “office politics,” I say “baby games.” Why is it a group of profession-anals revert to childhood at the workplace? It forces us all to play the “game.” Work is a schoolyard with telephones and computers. There are bullies, cheerleaders, geeks, and the ones who declares themselves popular. We’ve traded in four square, monkey bars, and whole milk for pointless meetings, emails, pissing contests and anti-depressants. She was the one on the play ground who said in that singsong voice, “I’m going to tell.” When you get to know the tattle tale you begin to warn the boss before she hears it from them. A phrase was said out of frustration or annoyance. A sarcasm gone bad. You became human for a second and dropped the act. Or maybe it’s nothing. But there is still that need to cover your own ass because no one watches out for you the way you watch out for you. Day and day out it’s tiresome. No wonder why we come home to veg on the couch and watch reality TV. Stars dancing, twenty-something trash living in a house of horrors, competetions to become supermodels, chefs, dancers, married, or skinny. I need to escape the playground. Not participating or rising above the game only works for so long. All this negative energy puts me in the slump. I used to leave it at the end of the day. I practiced it. Abided by it. But some days the tattle tale gets to you. The child within feelings are hurt. You think about faking sick, needing a mental health day. Making pancakes and watching Jane Austen inspired films. The adult knows and feels responsibility. There are meetings on the calendar. Problems to be solved. Fires to be put out. So pancakes and Jane Austen must wait until Saturday. The day of recovery. It’s a slump. It’s not permanent. I can’t let it be.