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Approximately ten years ago, I worked for a small insurance agency, with a president who could best be described as Southern-Fried Taliban. He was a strong-willed, old-fashioned, opinionated chap, who eternally suspected my motives, because I was, as he termed it, "a divorcee." Once the job as office manager became permanent, a long time passed before I felt any interest in looking for something better. But Mr. M. was taking no chances. He encouraged me to eat lunch in the office, rather than going anywhere, so any mid-day interviews would have been easy to detect. Still, any absence on my part raised his level of paranoia. The reason for his attitude was related to the previous three or four employees he'd had. All had departed with little warning, leaving his office in disarray and burdening him with the task of finding and training a replacement.

One day, I had the misfortune to wake up knowing immediately that something was wrong. The symptoms were unmistakable: I had some sort of major skin rash. Looking back, I'd also had a low-grade fever and body aches for the past few days. My first priority was seeing that my kindergarten-age son got to school, and then I needed to get to a doctor pronto. I called in to work, explained the situation, and was answered with a long, unfriendly silence from Mr. M. "Well," he said, "let me know as soon as you can what the problem is, and how soon you'll be getting back here to the office."

The problem turned out to be chicken pox, which I had somehow dodged all through childhood, only to be stricken at the threshold of middle age. Chicken pox in adulthood is no joke. I dragged myself through the next few days, getting my son off to school and touring the local pharmacies for remedies that wouldn't backfire on me. The balance of my days, for the rest of the week, was spent in bed, wanting nothing to do but sleep.

Unfortunately, Mr. M. had other plans for me. Thoroughly skeptical of my claims of poor health, he made it a point to call me at least once an hour. If I couldn't stagger out of bed fast enough to catch the phone, I'd hear his voice on my answering machine: "Where are you? I thought you were sick in bed. I certainly hope to hear back from you within the next couple of minutes. Surely, you're not so sick you can't tell me where to find a file?" My failure to pick up the phone immediately was interpreted by him as clear evidence that I was out "cheating on him" with prospective future employers.

This went on for a

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