Well, it finally happened. At about 9:30am on Monday, my desk was moved. I was told it would happen momentarily, but I never expected to get a phone call that early asking if I was ready. What a task that was. I had way more stuff than I thought. A manager walked past me and exclaimed, "He has more stuff in 6 months than I have." And he'd been there for over 5 years at least. I didn't know whether to say thanks or be ashamed. It was like moving to a new town; the other side of the floor had a decidedly different vibe than where I was. It was quieter, more relaxed even. Now don't get the wrong idea; I liked where I sat. All the people I talked to on a daily basis were there; and it was a great location. An end cubicle facing the hallway. There was a lot of activity and it was constantly noisy, but it was my noise. I was also within skipping (yes, skipping) distance of all the essentials: the copier, the fax, the mail room. The break room was a mere 1 minute walk. A great centrally located spot. But with the "reshuffling" or whatever they call it, of the unit, I became, as I like to say, a "cap casualty" (I like to speak in sports terms).
Anyway, moving all my stuff over there, I had no idea what I was in for in terms of what desk I was getting. I should have known when the burly man with the sad disposition said to me, "I'm not even close to being ready" that I'd be in for something. And boy was I.
When he finally had most of his stuff moved, I came over to put some of my massive Mount Everest-esque files in my new home. I went to open up a drawer, but Burly Man beat me to it. He asked before I opened it if I wanted him to clean it out. I figured it wouldn't be that bad, so I respectfully declined. So it was to my surprise when I opened up to find a pound of duck and soy sauces, old New York Mets schedules from the late '90's, and an appointment card for a psychiatric appointment (no surprise there). The desk itself was littered in what appeared to be crumbs, spilled coffee, lost souls, and broken dreams. The floor was covered in loose paper, paperclips, and probably about 10,000 types of bacteria. It took me literally 3 hours just to sanitize that outbreak. If I were to even put my hand on that desk, I'd of turned into the zombies in 28 Days Later, thirsting on cubicle dwellers. Whoever gets my old desk is getting a mansion compared to the Hooverville I inherited. The fact that someone could work like that for over 2 years shows just how bad things could get at that job. When people stop caring about their physical health, then you know it's bad.
But all in all, it hasn't been a bad move. Sure, I'm about 200 yards away from everything now, and I get a glare from the window that could melt an iceberg, but all in all it's OK. The job itself is, unbelievably, not that bad right now. Sure, I'm still looking for any excuse to get out, but I'm closing in on 6 months. The pay is decent, and will only go up. The benefits are to die for. But am I truly happy? I can't really say. Maybe because I am accomplishing all my tasks and not getting assigned any new work. I know that'll change. I think they're easing up because of the massive amount of paper they buried me in when I started. But it's all becoming routine, I guess. I've made my connections there, professionally and personally. But my heart is still somewhere else. I guess you have to ask me every day how I feel. It changes like the weather. I'm sure it'll get bad again, and I'll want to quit. But right now, the best word to describe how I feel is "complacent." But that won't be forever. The next post will deal with what I hate the most about commuters: people who open umbrellas when it's not raining, people who overdress for the weather, and my favorite, "people who sit in the aisle seat on a bus when they know they're going to have to move to the window anyway."
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