So Father Goof is back at the office. Not just his beloved (albeit untidy) home office - his actual office where he shows up on occasion lest his boss forget he works there. The best thing about my office is my chair. I inherited it from my grandmother who died eighteen years ago. It is ugly (and a little funky - not in a jazz club sort of way either.) When my wife first came over she looked around and did a mental calculation, "He can stay, but that chair has got to go."
But I held on, through several apartments and for more than five years in our house. Finally, as we re-did the den she out-maneuvered me and I could not protect it any longer. Fortunately, I had just moved to a new office and found it a new home there - where no one can come between us. Because it may be hideous, and I'm not sure blanket helps - like putting a muumuu on a camel - but it is really comfortable chair.
In fact, when people come to my office to meet with me, they make a beeline for the chair.
One thing about my work is that it comes in odd bursts that break the leisurely cycle and call for long days and occasional all-nighters. Father Goof isn't complaining (after all I get to keep my chair at my office), just saying. So after a recent bout of long days, I had to come into the office for some meetings. I dropped off the kids, drove in, and, exhausted, got to work, planted myself in my chair and realized...
I'm George Jetson (except for the giant talking dog, robot servant, and hover car...) a pretty cool life outcome, better then I would have guessed thirty years ago.