The Will to Resist

THE PANDA AND THE COUCH DOOG

There is an enormous cultural conspiracy against doing absolutely fucking nothing.

Everybody wants movement.

Do something.

Say something.

Fix something.

Follow up.

Send another email.

Make another phone call.

Explain yourself again.

Check the inbox.

Refresh the page.

Refresh it again.

Maybe the first refresh wasn't refreshing enough.

Perhaps if you stare at your phone with sufficient intensity, the universe will recognize your commitment and finally produce the answer you wanted.

I have recently discovered an alternative strategy.

It's called:

Do fuck all.

This requires explanation.

Because there is doing nothing because you're lazy.

There is doing nothing because you're scared.

There is doing nothing because you've given up.

And then there is doing nothing because you have examined the situation, performed every useful action available to you, and realized that additional movement would accomplish precisely:

Jack shit.

That is different.

That is the Panda Doctrine.

THE PANDA DOCTRINE

The Panda Doctrine is extremely complicated.

Years of study may be required.

Allow me to summarize:

I blink.

I do nothing.

I still win.

That's it.

Panda does not hold an emergency meeting.

Panda does not send a four-paragraph follow-up email titled:

JUST CIRCLING BACK REGARDING MY PREVIOUS CIRCULATION OF THE PREVIOUS FOLLOW-UP

Panda does not pace around the enclosure wondering whether somebody somewhere is thinking poorly of Panda.

Panda eats bamboo.

Panda sits down.

Panda occasionally falls off something.

Panda continues being Panda.

And somehow the fucking planet keeps rotating.

I used to think there was something almost irresponsible about this.

Surely if something matters, you should be doing something about it.

And sometimes?

Absolutely.

If the building is on fire, Panda Doctrine is suspended.

If you forgot to pay the electric bill, staring peacefully at the wall will not impress CenterPoint.

If you fucked something up, own it.

If somebody needs an answer from you, answer them.

If there's an application worth submitting, submit it.

If there's an interview Tuesday, answer the fucking phone Tuesday.

Strategic inactivity is not an excuse to neglect your responsibilities.

The doctrine begins after you've handled them.

That's the part people forget.

ENTER: COUCH DOOG

Then, through circumstances too stupid to explain without invoking Tales from the Crypt, another philosopher entered my life.

Couch Doog.

Couch Doog has an even simpler worldview.

If couch is there, Doog lay on couch.

Doog become couch.

Do nothing.

Couch Doog does not understand corporate anxiety.

Couch Doog has never opened Outlook.

Couch Doog has never refreshed an inbox seventeen times hoping the eighteenth refresh contains destiny.

Couch Doog has never wondered whether another carefully worded message might finally cause somebody else to do the thing they already know they're supposed to do.

Doog has couch.

Doog has animal cracker.

CRONCH.

This animal may be the greatest management consultant who ever lived.

THE TERRIFYING LIMITS OF PERSONAL CONTROL

Here's the problem.

Eventually you encounter situations where the next move belongs to somebody else.

And this drives people fucking insane.

We like buttons.

We like levers.

We like actions.

We especially like actions that allow us to pretend we still control the outcome.

So we poke.

We prod.

We check.

We follow up.

We explain something we've already explained.

We construct increasingly elaborate versions of the same message.

Maybe if I phrase it differently.

Maybe if I call again.

Maybe if I remind them.

Maybe if I provide another detail.

Maybe if I—

CRONCH.

Couch Doog looks at you.

Couch Doog knows.

You've already done the thing.

There is no second thing.

Sit the fuck down.

HAUS MORGENROT

This lesson arrived courtesy of my completely fictional and absolutely-not-inspired-by-anything workplace:

Haus Morgenrot.

I know that place like the back of my fucking hand.

Eight months will do that.

I know the rhythm of a twelve-hour shift.

I know approximately where I'd be at different points in the day.

I know the routines.

I know the procedures.

I know when things start moving.

I know when things slow down.

I know when lunch happens.

I know when the evening begins turning toward the final stretch.

And now I can sit at home, look at the clock, and think:

I could be coming off lunch right now.

Except I'm not.

I'm on my couch.

Because an incident became an allegation.

The allegation became an investigation.

The investigation became a suspension.

The suspension became waiting.

And waiting apparently discovered fucking tenure.

I cooperated.

I explained what I remembered.

I owned the procedural mistakes that belonged to me.

I submitted the requested statement.

I remained available.

I followed up.

I contacted the person I was told I could contact.

And eventually I reached the strangest point in the entire process:

There was nothing left for me to do.

Nothing useful, anyway.

I could still perform activity.

That's different.

I could send another email.

I could make another phone call.

I could explain myself for the seventeenth time.

I could shake the vending machine.

I could scream at the moon.

I could stand on my couch wearing a Burger King crown and declare myself Supreme Director of Human Resources.

Those are all technically actions.

None of them improve my position.

And that's when Panda appeared.

🐼

Blink.

Then Couch Doog.

🛋️🐕

CRONCH.

And together these two idiots explained something that apparently required forty-four years of life experience for me to properly understand:

You are allowed to stop pushing when pushing no longer moves anything.

DOING NOTHING IS NOT THE SAME AS GIVING UP

This distinction matters.

I haven't given up on working.

I'm applying elsewhere.

I'm interviewing.

I'm looking at warehouses.

I'm looking at shipping.

I'm looking at logistics.

I'm looking for somewhere I can go in, learn the process, do the process, collect my paycheck, and go the fuck home.

If Haus calls, I'll answer.

If another employer calls, I'll answer them too.

If circumstances change, I'll move.

That's the entire point.

When action has value: act.

When action has no value: stop manufacturing it.

That second part is harder than it sounds.

Especially when you're angry.

Especially when you feel ignored.

Especially when money is involved.

Especially when you know that somewhere across town the workplace you've memorized is continuing without you.

People clock in.

People clock out.

Lunch happens.

Paperwork happens.

Hallway cats roam.

Somebody probably loses a pen.

Somebody probably discovers three pens.

The institution continues being an institution.

And somehow—

despite everything your anxiety tells you—

you do not need to constantly remind the institution that you exist.

They know.

PANDA MEETS DOOG

So I've combined the doctrines.

Panda handles the philosophy.

Doog handles implementation.

Panda says:

I blink and do nothing and still win.

Doog says:

Couch I see. Animal crackers I eat.

Panda recognizes unnecessary action.

Doog has already fallen asleep.

Together they form perhaps the least productive-looking productivity system ever created.

And I fucking love it.

Because sometimes productivity isn't squeezing another action out of yourself.

Sometimes productivity is preserving your money.

Preserving your attention.

Preserving your dignity.

Preserving your ability to respond when something actually changes.

You don't need to spend emotional currency every hour just because somebody else hasn't made a decision.

You don't need to keep knocking on a door after you've already announced yourself.

You don't need to solve somebody else's delay.

And you definitely don't need to confuse motion with progress.

Sometimes the smartest move on the board is:

Nothing.

Not forever.

Not because you don't care.

Not because you've surrendered.

Just because—

your turn is over.

ENEMY PHASE

That's what I've started calling it.

My turn is over.

Enemy phase.

I made my moves.

The board belongs to somebody else for the moment.

So I'll sit here.

I'll apply for jobs when they're worth applying for.

I'll answer Tuesday's interview.

I'll manage my money.

I'll write stupid shit on the internet.

I'll continue discovering useless facts about movies.

And if the phone rings?

I'll pick it up.

Until then:

🐼 Panda blink.

🛋️🐕 Doog couch.

🍪 CRONCH.

The world continues.

And somehow—

somehow—

I still haven't exploded.

Maybe that's the win.

Mr. Jerry's Unsolicited Advice

There is a point where persistence stops being persistence and becomes repeatedly poking something that has already demonstrated it cannot currently be moved.

Learn the difference.

Do what belongs to you.

Finish your turn.

Then take your fucking hands off the controller.

You don't get bonus points for exhausting yourself during somebody else's phase.

And should you find yourself overwhelmed by the unbearable psychological burden of not interfering with shit you cannot presently change, Mr. Jerry recommends the following advanced therapeutic protocol:

Locate couch.

Deploy Doog.

Issue animal cracker.

CRONCH.

Further treatment may be unnecessary.

— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand