My Boss Insists On Having Meetings While Walking In The Park
every week morning, while my colleagues at the office are settling into the familiar, windowless comfort of our primary conference room, I am preparing for a much more exhausting ritual. While they get to enjoy the scent of stale, office-grade coffee and sit in ergonomic chairs while looking at long, static PowerPoint presentations, I am usually checking the weather report with a sense of dread. My boss, Greg, has a very specific philosophy about management: he believes that sitting still is the enemy of innovation. He thinks that four walls stifle the mind, and he is convinced that nature is the ultimate boardroom. Because of this, every week, he insists that our marketing team retreats to the local park for our weekly status meetings. For the first few weeks, I tried to keep an open mind. It sounded refreshing, almost like a wellness retreat disguised as a meeting. But after three months of this routine, I have realized that it is an absolutely terrible way to conduct actual business. We walk in circles for two hours straight, every single week, without fail. My legs ache by the forty-five-minute mark, and Greg never seems to notice. He just keeps walking at a brisk, steady pace, talking endlessly about quarterly sales numbers and conversion rates while I try to keep up. The real problem, however, is the logistics. As the person responsible for tracking our progress, I am expected to keep immaculate records of everything we discuss. I have to lug my iPad around everywhere, which is a nightmare to hold while navigating low-hanging tree branches, uneven grassy patches, and the bumpy, cracked asphalt of the park paths. I have become an accidental expert at trying to type coherent sentences while walking, balancing my device, and trying not to stumble over my own feet. Yesterday, things reached a new level of insanity. It was one of those sweltering summer days where the heat radiates off the pavement, and the park was absolutely packed with families, joggers, and people walking their dogs. Greg, as usual, was completely oblivious to his surroundings. He was mid-sentence, deep into a critique of our new summer ad campaign, while simultaneously munching on a poppy seed bagel he had brought along. I was trailing a few steps behind, desperately trying to fix a complex formula in a spreadsheet on my screen. The sun was so bright that it was causing a fierce glare on my display, making it nearly impossible to see the cells I was trying to edit. I was squinting so hard my eyes hurt, trying to balance my iPad while dodging a group of toddlers running toward the fountain. That was when I noticed the goose. It was a large, aggressive-looking bird that had been eyeing Greg from the edge of the pond. It seemed to have locked its sights onto the bagel in Greg’s hand. The goose hissed, a sound that was surprisingly loud and sharp, and suddenly started running directly toward us. I panicked. I jumped backward to get out of its path and nearly collided with a passing runner who was wearing headphones. I apologized, but my attention was glued to the charging bird. Greg, meanwhile, was still talking about brand identity as if he were in a soundproof studio. He was waving his bagel in the air for emphasis, right in the bird's face. The goose was now in a full sprint, neck extended, hissing with terrifying intensity. I yelled, Greg, move! There is a goose! He looked back at me, his brow furrowed in confusion, and he didn't even stop walking or stop talking about business. He just tilted his head, seemingly annoyed that I had interrupted his point about social media reach. I lost all my dignity in that moment. I realized that the bird was not going to stop, and Greg was not going to help himself. I scrambled to the side and jumped onto a wooden park bench, clutching my iPad to my chest for safety. From my vantage point on the bench, I watched the surreal scene unfold. Greg kept walking, completely unaware that he was being hunted by a piece of local wildlife. The goose followed him for three solid blocks, flapping its wings and snapping its beak near his heels. Greg continued to pace, pointing at the sky as he talked about our projected ROI, totally unfazed by the angry bird inches away from his legs. He did not even drop a single crumb of his bagel. It was like watching a slow-motion nature documentary that had gone horribly wrong. Finally, the goose reached the boundary of its territory near the water and gave up, turning around to waddle back toward the pond. I sat there on the bench for a full minute, shaking from the adrenaline and the sheer absurdity of the situation. I took a few deep breaths and frantically tried to finish my notes on the spreadsheet before Greg noticed I had stopped walking. He eventually turned around, saw me perched on the bench, and offered a bright, cheerful smile. Good pace today, he said, sounding perfectly satisfied with the meeting. I just stared at him, still vibrating with anxiety. It was as if I hadn't just been fighting for my life while he debated marketing tactics with a waterfowl. I think we covered a lot of ground today, he added, turning to head back toward the park exit. I just nodded, checked my notes one last time to make sure they were actually readable, and let out a long, quiet sigh. As I followed him toward the parking lot, all I could think about was the forecast for next week. I truly, desperately hoped for rain.