(FORTUNE Magazine) – When the time comes to kick back, it's important that you get your head completely out of the game. There's nothing more pathetic than the sight of some poor schmo, his cellular phone in his ear, his beeper humming on his hip, as he tries to enjoy some off-campus activity on a bright Saturday afternoon. That guy may think he's using his time productively. He's not. He's just allowing himself to get strung out by working seven days a week until his mind bulges with unresolved matter that eventually extrudes through his eye sockets and down the front of his shirt.

That's why I went to the circus last weekend. It was great. My wife and I dressed in unconstraining clothing and, with the kids in tow, took the corporate box for the afternoon. We ordered up a mess of hot dogs, Cracker Jacks, and cookies, and kicked back with a vengeance. Man, was it fun! I didn't think about work once, as you will plainly see.

The circus hasn't changed much since I was a kid. It starts off with all personnel marching in through the two huge doors at the end of the arena, sort of like 9 a.m. at my building, when executives, delivery boys, mailroom guys, clerks, secretaries, street whacks, real estate attorneys--you name it--stream through the big revolving doors, ready to start their act just one more time. Big ones with tiny heads, short ones with big red noses, guys with major-league hat hair attempting to look serious, fat ladies getting the last puff out of their itty-bitty cigarettes. They're here to play, and they want you to know it.

Next? A variety of jugglers, one in each ring. We were seated toward the middle one, where the big acts get to play. But the people in the side rings aren't too shabby. They do the job in places like Spokane and Memphis. And they probably don't make as much money as their counterparts in New York City and Chicago, but maybe their lifestyles are better and the level of stress isn't too bad either. Sometimes I think about being in the side ring, but I pretty much dismiss it. I've chosen, and I don't complain when they send me the center-ring check at the end of the month.

After the jugglers come the clowns. It's my impression that kids are generally scared of clowns. Remember the clowns in Dumbo? They were mean and chomped on stogies and drank a lot. That's because no matter how funny you think you are in the circus, nobody's really laughing. Of course, you don't have to be all that funny to make people chuckle in the big tent. Like, the other day we were discussing contingency budget actions to be taken if revenues lag in the third quarter. Warschavsky, an ultra-portentous senior vice nabob, was eating a bagel and going over productivity measures in outlying areas. About halfway through his spiel, I said to him, "Excuse me, Fritz, but you have a glob of cream cheese on the end of your nose." And he did too! Man, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

The clowns are just interstitial material. After them we were back to serious business: the lion tamer. They closed down the side rings for him, and I guess you can see why. The thing I love is how they encompass his entire working area in netting, so that if things go wrong he's the only one to get hurt. That happened to me just last week with the Fassbinder thing. Costs on the deal had to be cut by nearly 80%. I mean the whole situation had gotten completely overblown. The old man had to be told, and whose job did that turn out to be? Mine! Boy, did the vicinity clear out when the time came. I got the job done, though, mostly by poking a stick in Fassbinder's face and yelling at him until he went back on his stool and sat up like a little kitty. All the guys gave me a big hand after that one. The dangerous jobs always make you want to puke beforehand, but when they're over, you're glad you're not one of the little people, if you know what I mean.

There are some jobs worse than that, though. Take the high-wire act. I admire these attractive professionals, believe you me. Like gymnasts who vault into the arms of their partners, these guys depend on training and teamwork. One part of the organism fails, everybody ends up squished like bugs on a windshield. Once, Gorsky forgot to inform the telephone conferencing company when our shareholders' meeting began, so our out-of-town audience was cut out for some 30 minutes, the heart of the chairman's presentation! When Martin's people found out, our entire squad took a hit. It was bloody, and poor Gorsky had to die. I never want to go through that again.

After intermission, there was a host of lesser acts that made you wonder why people end up doing what they do for a living. There was a fellow who was shot out of a cannon. He almost missed the net. Ouch! Then there was a Bulgarian family that balanced on huge white balls. It was impressive as hell, but why do it? I've often wanted to ask Kosznofski in Finance the same question, but I don't. People practice and get really good at something, and it takes on a life of its own, an inherent reason for being. You don't want to go asking profound questions about it. They could get mad. After that, some woman came out and whipped a baby hippo's butt while it ran around in circles with a monkey on its back. Hey. It's a living. There are guys who do nothing but reengineering for their entire careers. Who are we to judge?

At last, the big finale. A big crowd of pachyderms came trotting out, ran around for a while, and ended up standing with their front legs on the back of the guys in front of them. They raised their trunks and tooted, and everybody loved it. But I couldn't help but notice that their front ends were not the only active portions. As they met a rather vigorous production schedule in this regard, out came a fellow in a green jumpsuit, equipped with a long-handled broom and dustpan, who eradicated all evidence within seconds. It had been a long afternoon, and as you can see, I didn't think about business once. But there was something about this job that was a little too evocative for comfort. I guess a lot of people must have felt that way, because when he was done we all gave him a real big hand and he took a bow.

I'm sure that made him feel good. Everybody likes recognition. But it made me think. Did this guy visualize this as his career when he was a child, full of hope and frankfurters? I don't think so. Of course, I didn't know what I would be doing either. I thought I'd be in the circus, come to think of it.

Thank goodness things worked out differently.

By day, STANLEY BING is a real executive at a real FORTUNE 500 company he'd rather not name.