Post Lunch Fatigue

When I was a kid my least favorite time was nap time. All the other little children would roll out their little nap mats and zonk out for an hour or so. But not me. I was that little kid who would just lie there, basically twitching to get up and run around. My grandfather used to call me “The Mexican jumping bean” even though I was not Mexican but because I couldn’t sit still. When I first went to Disney World as a 5 year old my father convinced me I would never grow tired as long as I wore “magic shoes” which were really just some kick ass Rebok hightops.

But as I look back I wonder, where did that energy go? Take today for instance. I worked all the way until lunch, which we take at 1:30 because the lunch room isn’t as crowded then. I eat my soup and Baked Cheetos (so much better than the regular ones) come back to my desk and have done nothing productive since then except find a photo from the new Indiana Jones movie for a co-worker and attempt to track down a blank DVD for another. (I found the photo but am still waiting to hear about the DVD.)

I just have no energy. Sure I have been fighting a head cold for the past two weeks but I don’t think that is it. And sure I only got like three hours of sleep on Saturday night because my friends and I went out and had a few (read: many) drinks. But that can’t be it either. And I know I haven’t seen the sun because it is January in Chicago and I might be suffering from seasonal affect disorder. But seriously, that can’t be it either.

The cause of my stupor must be the Writer’s Strike.

And I am dead serious. I am all for the striking writers and I believe in the cause but the reality programming is starting to get to me. I go home at night and instead of seeing new episodes of The Office I am left trying to figure out why Wife A would think it was okay to only feed her children green food while Wife B is religiously opposed to all things green. Or why the young, trendy guy with the cowboy hat thought that was a good look to pull off on MTV. Or why Howie Mandell was rubbing some ladies fanny pack on a game show that is driven solely by people’s greed.

So producers, if you should find yourselves reading this, please give the writers their money. You’ve already lost the Golden Globes. How much more are you willing to give up? The Grammy’s? The Oscars? The Teen Choice Awards? Think about it. How will celebrities know that they have accomplished anything if they can’t accept a ginat surfboard on national TV?

The Office Scribe