It's like when you're stuck in that dingy jury duty holding room. The girl sitting one old high school desk chair away has four-inch-long natural nails. Does she take multivitamins? It's like that guy in The Guinness Book of World Records with those rolled up longest finger nails ever. Are they related? Is nail growth genetic?
You've read and re-read your emergency novel. Phone battery is dying from too much email checking. You're pretty sure claustrophobia is definitely a real thing now. You start to feel sorry for the officer baby-sitting the room. How much vitamin D is he getting down here? Marshall's mom from How I Met Your Mother is knitting in the corner.
Professional woman who takes herself too seriously is typing away on her blackberry. She throws out words like "co-workers" and "breakfast meeting" and "weight watchers" to the man sitting next to her like she's the only woman ever to work in an office or something. (Fun Fact: I've never worked in an office. I solemnly swear if I ever get a job in an office I will gouge out both of my eyeballs with a fork and feed them to my dog).
The one time I visited Tom's new office I instantly wanted to burst into tears. He even works in one of those fancy buildings with glass elevators and waterfalls and fountain-y ponds, but even with all the bells and whistles an office building still depresses the hell out of me. I don't know what it is. Too many copy machines? The square, planned, evenness of everything? The lemony scent of chemical-laden floor cleaners? The drab wardrobes? The candy bowls with peppermints that no one actually likes? And what's with the candy bowls, anyway? Do you really want people stopping by your desk to chat about the weather? Or worse--sports? Office gossip? If I had a cubicle all my own, I'd barbed wire the top, tack a posted sign to the porous sponge wall, and noise cancel headphone myself into oblivion).
Sports--that reminds me. The row of men in the back have become life-long friends. Bonding over local teams of every kind--football, baseball, basketball, hockey. The mind-numbing rambling of statistics and projections is Ipecac to my soul.
And then the door opens and Heaven's light pours in and the Hallelujah Chorus floods your ears--and just like that all hopes and dreams are crushed. An estimated 45 minute delay--translation: three hours more in this cesspool of awkwardness.
Sometimes life feels like a jury duty holding room. The kind of funk that can only be snapped by an episode of Seinfeld or a David Sedaris book.