My to-do list was never-ending. Pumping was something I could finish.
I have a secret fantasy to tell you about. I've always been kind of embarrassed about it, but I've found it's shared by so many of my white-collar friends, whose hands have the smooth texture of people for whom a hard day of work means clicking, double-clicking, and a couple thousand strikes of the keyboard before eating a sad desk lunch, their faces two inches from the monitor.
It started, for me, as soon as my career did. There I was, in my fully synthetic Business Casual apparel from Express, riding a train to an office where after 6 months I still wasn't sure what the company actually did. On the way, I'd gaze longingly at delivery men unloading pallets of soda. I'd find myself jealous of construction workers, slapping up scaffolding like the Dozers in Fraggle Rock.
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