On the top of a filing cabinet, set into a closet in my office, are three little golden pigs, balanced above three wooden bases.
Trophies. Recognition. Rather confusing objects.
But there they are. One faces to the right. The other two oppose it, facing left. My obsessiveness doesn’t run to pig trophies, so they remain that way even though I’m certain that with a bit of adjustment they could all be aligned in one direction (but would it be right or left?).
I don’t have many trophies. I wasn’t interested in sports as a young boy. Just one trophy, for running a half marathon at age 25, is remotely sports oriented. So I keep the pigs in my closet, along the top of a filing cabinet.
There have been other trophies and plaques for speech-giving prowess, for academic achievement, participation in various events, etc. None adorn my office walls. Just three little pigs, sitting on a file cabinet, in my closet.
They don’t recognize me for any personal achievement. Just a bit of support for a worthy organization. And running pigs around a track for the amusement of the attendees.
That’s why the piggies get to stay. They’re just gold colored pigs with no particular meaning other than this simple reminder: I don’t work for trophies. I don’t need trophies.
But I do have the pigs.
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