No, I do. I understand.
I know what it’s like to return to Cubicle #13 after a nice long weekend break from the joint.
I GET IT.
I know how vexed you are to be sitting at your desk in your swivel chair surrounded by the same blockheads you were so relieved to get away from last Thursday or Friday.
There’s Madge and her rancid perfume. Thing is, she got another bottle for Christmas from her husband so it’s stronger and funkier. It leaves a cloud in the very air long after she’s gone. It invades your nostrils and singes the hairs in your nose.
There’s coworker Strange Bob wearing the same corduroys with his mysterious “tuna fish” sandwiches that he puts in the fridge. Sometimes even after you’ve made every possible effort to avoid his lunch, you return to the fridge only to discover that somehow it managed to be placed–squished actually–right next to your lunch. Now you’ve got “tuna fish” essence slash vibes on your own vittles. Not cool at all.
Oh gosh, there’s also the random gum poppers, whistlers, loud talkers, speaker-phone-only coworkers who make your skin crawl, your blood boil, your days longer, your head hurt.
I GET IT.
Then there’s your boss, The Man. The Goon. The Drone. The Gatekeeper. You didn’t even receive a Christmas bonus. You never receive a Christmas bonus but still…Hang in there. We’ve all got our cubicle to bear.