I might have mentioned this before, but I used to go to baseball games at a place called Candlestick Park. It was built in the worst possible location for a ballpark, one of the windiest points in San Francisco, right on the Bay where the air is coldest all year. I loved that stadium, and I miss it. Oh, it's still there, but they don't play baseball there any more.
One year a friend and I had season tickets just behind what they used to call the "penalty box." That was a little shed in the right field corner where the relief pitchers sat (out of the cold) and waited for their turn. We had field level seats in the most remote part of the stands, but at least we could hoot at the other team's right fielder (and often at our own).
The ballpark was windy, and people who went there (what few there were in those days) had a hard time hanging onto hot dog wrappers, programs, caps, cotton candy, blankets, woolen underwear, space heaters, and small children. There weren't as many restrictions on what you could bring into a stadium in those days.
The wind swirled in a particular pattern. All the airborne debris ended up in our corner. I'm convinced that's what the penalty box was really protecting the pitchers from. By the end of the game, we were covered in trash and faced with a big pile of papers and clothing, bound together by catsup, stale Coke and tobacco juice. Yeah, it was just as disgusting as I'm trying to make it sound, but we were happy to be there.
The reason I bring this up is that it reminds me of my life. Specifically, it evokes the way I let all the less interesting duties of my job swirl around all month and gather at the deadline, waiting for me to wade through them. By the last day they're unavoidable, and getting at them is the only way to escape.