an office of one's own

Yesterday afternoon I moved into my new office. Actually, “new” is a misrepresentation. Badly in need of paint, my walls are scarred with countless scuffs and gouges, perhaps from employees throwing pens, staplers, phones, and all manner of office accoutrements in moments of rage. Also left behind is adhesive residue from the pictures and art previous inhabitants brought from home to personalize this workspace, decor that said, “Hey, I'm not just an accountant/editor/marketing manager, I also happen to like Fellini films/quilting/Shannen Doherty.” (Though most employees advertise their private lives in an incomplete manner. They're unlikely, for instance, to bring in pictures of themselves in animal drag from a plushies and furries convention. That would be oversharing, even for a Care Bear.)



My coworkers and I were moved from our little maze of Workitrail cubicles to a suite of offices recently vacated by staff relocated to our New York headquarters. Actually, the departed employees weren't so much relocated as they were fired and replaced with New Yorkers, and they weren't so much fired as they “left the company to pursue other interests”—that's what the e-mail announcements said. I have other interests as well, but few of them, however vigorously pursued, would likely produce income.



I found out about our impending move only an hour or so before the IT guy came to my cubicle and said, “I'm here to disconnect you.” That's not much notice for the average employee to clean out her desk, take down her personally expressive wall hangings, and bid her taupe fabric panel walls adieu. But I'm not your average employee. My workspace erred on the side of asceticism, looking not unlike a temp's terminal, sharing little about the person who labored within. The only nonessential items in my cube were a bamboo plant, my 5-year service award (proving that I'm not a temp), and a toy cubicle (with a toy employee named Anne whom I introduce to coworkers as my trainee). Everything could be packed into two plastic grocery bags and wheeled over on the seats of my two chairs—that's the most extravagant thing about my workspace, that I lay claim to two chairs, one in which to lean back and scrutinize hard copy in search of grammatical and stylistic infractions, and one in which to sit up straight in front of my computer to enter corrections…and read the blogs mine hopes to be just like when it grows up. My chairs are like my (theoretical) children; I love them equally for different reasons. And if the office manager ever tries to impose a one-chair limit on me, I'll start agitating for disabled parking…and maybe a Rascal mobility scooter like this racy number:



My office doesn't have a window, but it does have four walls, a ceiling, and a door…that shuts! (There's a sign above the knob that says, “Por favor, de no cerrar la puerta. ¡Gracias!” but I'm pretty sure it's directed at the cleaning crew.) Now when I call the pharmacy for a refill and I'm asked which medication I need, I won't need to cup my hand around the mouthpiece and stage-whisper “Seroquel.” Now I can call my therapist for a quickie, knowing that when she calls back I can shut my door and have my sessionette in private. Now I can put that bulk pseudoephedrine I bought on eBay to good use in my very own meth lab—taking care, of course, not to burn down my shiny new office.



Life is sweet from here on out. I don't even care that the receptionist told someone who called for me this morning that no one by my name works here. I have an office, dammit.