The definition of counterproductive, otherwise known as, I need a new career

When dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s and entering endless streams of data (in duplicate and triplicate) at my day job, my mind tends to wander down Income Disparity Road. It generally happens when I’m determining compliance, which is a fancy way of describing the menial task of counting each and every pill that research participants have returned.

Actually, it happens a lot when I’m counting, and it’s completely involuntary. I’ll be counting away and suddenly notice that I’m all, “one-hundred-and-five, one-hundred-and-ten,…I wonder how much Jennifer Lopez makes in one hour…, one-hundred-and-fifteen, one-hundred-and-twenty, …Jennifer Aniston is probably sitting poolside as a resort in the Bahamas right now…, one-hundred-and-twenty-five, one-hundred-and-thirty, one-hundred-and-thirty-five, …I bet Jennifer Garner’s dimple gets it’s own paycheck…,” and so on. Yes, my thoughts tend to be about famous Jennifers. But not exclusively.

Sometimes—and this is the worst—sometimes? I think about Madonna.

And believe me, as cool as she is (was? No, is. I’ll stick with is. As cool as she is), it does not serve me to consider the material girl’s hourly pay for doing nothing more than inhaling and exhaling every day. I mean, I do that AND I count pills.