This morning I witnessed a horrific car-meets-motorcycle accident just two blocks from my office. As I watched the cyclist lying on the ground, looking more not-alive than alive, I pulled over to the side of the road, rolled down my window and made sure the witnesses all had cell phones and that everyone was properly taken care of. I made sure that that ambulance was on its way, and once I heard the sirens, and saw the cyclist move his arm — even just a tiny bit — I drove the few blocks to my office and sat in my car, shaking.
My morning sure took a turn.
It started as any other morning. Wake up too early, press snooze on my alarm, wake up again, hit snooze again, wake up again, hit snooze again, attempt to pry my eyes open in the shower, make sure my children are awake and accounted for, make sure they are all properly making their lunches and their breakfasts.
{Side note that is probably going to be a future blog post about how I am considering myself a superhero for accomplishing this parenting feat even though at 15, 13, and 10 they have been fully capable for a while now but don’t rain on my parade, mmmmkay: All three of my children make their own breakfasts and lunches now.}
I drive Isabella to school and then head to the office — sometimes it’s my home office, so I’m still sporting yesterday’s makeup and some pretty smoking’ bedhead (sorrynotsorry parents in the school parking lot!), sometimes it’s my actual office, so I’m sporting my not-dissimilar-to-Pam-Beesley wardrobe.
Can we talk for a minute about cubicles? I don’t talk that frequently about life in my office and my actual job of making garbage sexy (which I have done, you guys, I have grown our Twitter presence by 250% and our Facebook presence by 153% — take *that* Tony Soprano) because I don’t want to get Dooced and also, I don’t know, I have some boundary issues and don’t know what’s appropriate to discuss so I keep my mouth fairly shut (Also in this category: Money and sex and parents) but cubicles are THE WORST.
(No, a Donald Trump presidency is THE WORST, followed closely by PRINTERS)
So, Cubicles are almost the worst.
Cubicles mean that I can smell what you are having for lunch. They mean that I know everything there is to know about your weekend, your grandparents, your children, your fears, your hopes, your dreams, the meeting you have at 11am, your hockey game, your babysitters, how you take your coffee, your lunch hour plans, your dinner plans, the meeting you have at 3pm. They mean that I can hear your throat clearing and vocal tics. They mean that my cubicle neighbours are basically a part of all of my conference calls. Which also means that I have to be part of my cubicle neighbors’ conference calls. They mean that I cannot eat carrots without worrying about the crunch factor. They mean that I don’t see any sky or sunlight.
They are absolutely not good for any kind of productivity for me—I get at least twice as much accomplished at home working in my underpants.
And I wouldn’t have seen that accident this morning.