The Queen Boss has been in Paris for a month, accompanying her kids to French lessons so that they might properly enroll themselves in fashion and culinary school in the near future. Of late, she has taken the opportunity, or rather she has abused the white space below every email that she sends out to us, and turned it into a miniscule vessel for the outpourings of her troubled soul. She frets. She complains. She perspires stressful beads of sweat in her cooled Paris apartment because she has not worked for a month and is therefore losing her mind. She implicitly begs us, it seems, to send her work but which she cannot do either because she refuses to hire a housekeeper for 80 Euros a day such that she has to do her own house-cleaning and it is making her arms quite physically lose all feeling to the extent that she had to get herself checked to the doctor to make sure that everything was alright and the trip to the doctor and whatnot is cutting even more time out of her schedule to work.
We talk about her in suppressed giggles in office hallways, then we turn away and silently feel sorry for her. We make secret pacts with ourselves that we would never turn into a clinical workaholic. We return to our cubicles and log on to tripadvisor, imagining our own little version of a trip to Paris once we had earned enough money to go. Then we realize we have to work in order to earn the money required.