The office phone rang. She answered, listened, then said with apology:
“Well, no, I haven’t had a chance yet. Just got back from two weeks’ vacation and I’m not to the bottom of my pile yet.”
And at that moment I knew The Definition of Life. Life is a bunch of piles you never quite get to the bottom of.
You try, but life piles up on you.
In theory, the winner in life is actually the person who gets to the bottom of all his piles first. So far, it’s not been done. By anyone.
Rumor had it a guy named Herb got to the bottom of his pile before he died in a cattle stampede in 1873, but it couldn’t be positively documented, so there you have it. (And you know Herb, always with the exaggerations, often over-selling and under-performing, so …)
Life is piles. And you can’t take piles with you when you go.
Piles, of course, never die. They do not sleep. They do not wear watches and they have the staying power of garlic.
Take our vacation traveler. She went on vacation, her piles did not. The office mail kept coming. Her piles grew, heartlessly.
The big pile was divided into three smaller piles for her when she returned. There was the Urgent Pile, the Need To Check This Out Pile, and the Only When They Invent The 30-Hour Workday Pile.
Despite her hopes, she will never get to the bottom of any of them. I know. I looked. They’re big.
It’s really kind of sad, watching her brave attempts to de-pile as the phone rings and more little piles disguised as daily mail keep coming. The only thing that could save her at this point is an ejector seat.
Of course, you don’t have to have a job to have a pile. Blue collar piles are mild compared to the piles you have in your home, the piles you live with.
We’re written before about The Kitchen Drawer, that place where every American keeps a lot of stuff that doesn’t go anywhere else: tape, string, batteries, rubberbands, old keychains and icebox magnets. The Kitchen Drawer is nothing more than a domestic pile in a cage.
Your true, full-bred domesticated piles spring up in likely places. There is The Pile On That Table By The Bed, which consists of paperback books and a clock and notes to yourself and probably errant jewelry.
The Pile In The Den, which is magazines and books and candles, probably a dish towel left from last night.
The Bathroom Pile, which grows and shrinks depending on the number of cosmetics used and showers taken that day.
Finally, there is The Pile On Your Desk Where You Check Bills And Do Stuff, which is the worst pile of all. You check the laptop to make sure the bills went through, and you feel other piles staring at you, the pile of pictures you mean to frame, letters you need to answer, notes to yourself, and a laughable pad of paper that reads “Things To Do Today.” You will get to the bottom of this pile at the approximate same time hells re-sets its temp to a refreshing 65.
A final remember about piles. They will always be with us because you can’t help somebody de-pile. People don’t even want you to help them. (“HEY! DON’T TOUCH THAT! THAT’S MY PILE!”)
Man is peculiar that way. What they say is true after all: One man’s trash is another man’s pile.
Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu
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