Here’s how broken I am: I’m deep in the middle of troubleshooting with another tech. We’re in the cabin of a City of Canby car, in tight quarters, when my phone chimes. I recognize it as a message from Instagram.
I don’t get many messages from Instagram, so I quickly look at my screen. Discreetly, because K., the other tech, is there. It’s a message from a stripper I follow.
The message has no preview. That means it’s a picture.
While I’m looking it chimes again and I get another message from her. “Thanks, babe!” followed by hearts and kissy face emoji.
So begins my battle of self-control. Because I want to see that picture. Now. It’s way more interesting (in the abstract) than anything I’m doing to or in that city car.
My brain starts a war with itself. An amusing war, but, y’know, still.
Anyway, the part of me that doesn’t want to be caught looking at porn with a co-worker while at work, with city workers all around me, finally won.
But it was close.
Epilogue: I saved it for my lunch break. It was a relatively tame picture. Still the right decision, of course, of course.