Worst of the Worst

My ego’s still smarting from the blow it took yesterday. It’s not a secret that Nevada’s child support enforcement program ranks last in the nation. So, when the first report of our newly reorganized unit’s stats for last month came out, I’ll be damned if I didn’t have the lowest score. If this was golf, Tiger would be looking over his shoulder. But alas, it’s a competition for the highest score and I turned out to be a Tampa Bay Buccaneer. I could here recite my concerns about the shortcomings of self-reporting, but that would just be sour grapes rationalization. I’m never late to work. I don’t leave earlier than I’m supposed to. I sit in my cubicle and do the best that I know how, and the reward for my efforts is last place. My memoirs of our time here will fall under the general heading of Failing in Las Vegas. My “divorce” with The United Methodist Church took place here. My attempt to develop a community of faith failed here. And now, even my impersonation of a Camusian bureaucrat has caught up with me. Is this what the Golden Years are going to consist of? Fondly recalling younger times when success was almost too easy? Boy, this is gonna be the life!