I have long wondered whether or not there is a genetic marker for those in society who desire and defend their roles as white-collar administrators. Administrators — you know, those tasked to dish out endless orders and directives from on high, and to do so with a steady stream of mild pleasantries and an air of normalcy. The species fascinates me. Especially captivating are the subspecies of the public sector who occupy corner offices.

Even if there were an “admin-type” genetic marker, it wouldn’t exactly be the kiss of death. After all, someone needs to stay on top of the budget and explain to the staff the necessity of the latest stack of forms. Someone needs to schedule the meetings, lead the committees, and issue recommendations — that call for more meetings. All the tedium comes with a payoff. In exchange for an ironclad display of loyalty, every two weeks a tidysum appears in the administrator’s bank account.

Administrators roam their terrain of cubicles foraging for the feeling of ever-greater stability. Their message is clear: “The road may get bumpy, but there is no need for concern. We will exist. We will live to perpetuate the species. And hey, you by the copier, I’ve got my eyes on you — you arrive 10 minutes early and your PowerPoints are first-rate; keep it up and you’ll have my position in 10 years!”

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