I am greeted with a haunting sense of familiarity every morning as I pull into the parking lot, anticipating each inconsequential action moments before performing them: This is when I turn off my headlights; This is when I finagle my water bottle off the floor and juggle it with my coffee mug that I wrangle out of its ill-fitting cup holder; This is when I bundle my two handbags and fumble to lock my door; This is when I begin trudging slowly and desolately to work.
I dodge motorists turning this way and that and pad carefully through the crosswalk glistening with rain—mindful not to slip on the white paint which seems particularly perilous. Arnie greets me with a huge smile on his face, bellows “good morning” and flips the switch so I need not negotiate my wares to flip my access badge against the wall. It’s the time of year when the walls, stairwell, and any other fixture that can facilitate accoutrements are plastered with holiday decorations. A three foot tall Nutcracker eyes me as I make my way up the stairs, the reflection of garland twinkling in his glossy wooden eyes. Crossing the walkway to my building, I longingly stare out the windows at the early morning. There’s promise in the dawn: it is crisp, fresh, hopeful and elusive. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and feel terribly incongruous with my stark surroundings. My blue and white striped cable knit Uggs appear as woolen mukluks; my sparkly multi-coloured headband alludes to a girl who thinks she’s a princess; my makeup shows too much effort for being someplace where no one either cares or notices.
Pushing through the office door, I am blinded by the neon lighting as I slink toward my desk. Unfettering myself of all my loot, I plunk down in my overstuffed La-Z-Boy office chair and turn on the glowing god at whom I must stare for the next nine hours. As he whirs and purrs, I situate my vitamins, my pens, and my calendar across my desk. After what seems like hours, I finally open Outlook Express and begin deleting all my unnecessary emails. I ensure all outstanding issues are addressed and mosey downstairs for my daily breakfast, which rarely varies: Tropical Mango Vitamin Water, multi-grain English muffin, a slice of cheddar cheese and two pieces of crispy almost burned bacon. While waiting for my muffin to toast in the decades old old-school toaster, I eyeball executives strategizing over coffee and employees milling about—wasting as much time as possible socializing around the espresso machine and condiment tables. I assemble my sandwich and head back to my desk.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of indecipherable vendor issues and inquiries. I slap on a smile and respond forthwith, pressing send-receive compulsively in anticipation of the next task presenting itself. Trips to the bathroom and water cooler are more frequent than any other employee’s since I am focused on preparing myself for the evening’s Bikram class. The monotony is no longer enchanting and begins to whittle away at my patience.
I subtly check my phone in hopes of some sort of emancipatory message from an unknown benefactor. These messages sadly do not arrive so I instead conspire with my cohorts to plan for weekend escapes and distractions.
From 2pm to 4pm I am faced with the witching hour of the day. Time slows to a halt and sits heavily and expansively on my throat as I idly shuffle papers and investigate the latest news and gossip of the day.
At long last, 4pm arrives and I hurriedly gather up my earthly wares—all but running from my desk. The computer is asleep, my desktop is clear, and my chair is carefully tucked back in. I bid farewell to my co-workers and wish them a pleasant evening, then depart and sink into the warmth of my leather car seat. I am heavy with resignation and fatigue, and shall wait for the remainder of the evening before I may truly come to life and be a Bonne Vivante once more.
I dodge motorists turning this way and that and pad carefully through the crosswalk glistening with rain—mindful not to slip on the white paint which seems particularly perilous. Arnie greets me with a huge smile on his face, bellows “good morning” and flips the switch so I need not negotiate my wares to flip my access badge against the wall. It’s the time of year when the walls, stairwell, and any other fixture that can facilitate accoutrements are plastered with holiday decorations. A three foot tall Nutcracker eyes me as I make my way up the stairs, the reflection of garland twinkling in his glossy wooden eyes. Crossing the walkway to my building, I longingly stare out the windows at the early morning. There’s promise in the dawn: it is crisp, fresh, hopeful and elusive. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and feel terribly incongruous with my stark surroundings. My blue and white striped cable knit Uggs appear as woolen mukluks; my sparkly multi-coloured headband alludes to a girl who thinks she’s a princess; my makeup shows too much effort for being someplace where no one either cares or notices.
Pushing through the office door, I am blinded by the neon lighting as I slink toward my desk. Unfettering myself of all my loot, I plunk down in my overstuffed La-Z-Boy office chair and turn on the glowing god at whom I must stare for the next nine hours. As he whirs and purrs, I situate my vitamins, my pens, and my calendar across my desk. After what seems like hours, I finally open Outlook Express and begin deleting all my unnecessary emails. I ensure all outstanding issues are addressed and mosey downstairs for my daily breakfast, which rarely varies: Tropical Mango Vitamin Water, multi-grain English muffin, a slice of cheddar cheese and two pieces of crispy almost burned bacon. While waiting for my muffin to toast in the decades old old-school toaster, I eyeball executives strategizing over coffee and employees milling about—wasting as much time as possible socializing around the espresso machine and condiment tables. I assemble my sandwich and head back to my desk.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of indecipherable vendor issues and inquiries. I slap on a smile and respond forthwith, pressing send-receive compulsively in anticipation of the next task presenting itself. Trips to the bathroom and water cooler are more frequent than any other employee’s since I am focused on preparing myself for the evening’s Bikram class. The monotony is no longer enchanting and begins to whittle away at my patience.
I subtly check my phone in hopes of some sort of emancipatory message from an unknown benefactor. These messages sadly do not arrive so I instead conspire with my cohorts to plan for weekend escapes and distractions.
From 2pm to 4pm I am faced with the witching hour of the day. Time slows to a halt and sits heavily and expansively on my throat as I idly shuffle papers and investigate the latest news and gossip of the day.
At long last, 4pm arrives and I hurriedly gather up my earthly wares—all but running from my desk. The computer is asleep, my desktop is clear, and my chair is carefully tucked back in. I bid farewell to my co-workers and wish them a pleasant evening, then depart and sink into the warmth of my leather car seat. I am heavy with resignation and fatigue, and shall wait for the remainder of the evening before I may truly come to life and be a Bonne Vivante once more.
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