When the Johns Hopkins festival got too hot the other day, I pulled my boyfriend into their library and popped open a book about all different kinds of office jobs, and I began to think about what it’s like to sit at one of the following jobs: coach on a bench (football game), salesman/business worker, engineer, artists, salon/hairdresser, teacher (already am), bookstore owner/librarian, musician (violinist, cellist, pianist, etc..), medical (nurse/doctor), director, musician, cook.
And the one job, which I found a picture of elsewhere, off a telemarketing site, which I would crave sitting behind a desk at, is a cubicle. Now I know that a handful of people would disagree with me, but every morning that I’m on the interstate at 7:15, I have to watch myself. I’ve almost run into five cars ahead of me watching the office buildings off to my right, in the city with open expectancy and the silver glint of tinsel in my eye from decorated evergreen trees, with the sounds of ice in the drink from an open bar, clinking in my ear.
I think of office parties, like Christmas ones, clean break rooms, new microwaves, heat in the winter and AC in the summer, all the things lacking in my classroom where dusty, ripped high school assessment test booklets are piled up so high that you can’t see which car with loud music it was that just peeled out from the parking lot. Now I know that it’s superficial, and when it comes down to it, there’s probably nothing more that I want to do than to make a difference and to get creative with my lesson plans everyday, have one-on-one time with students explaining point of view, figurative language, and British literature. I love it. Butttttt, there’s no harm in dreaming. And if I could choose from the pictures above, I’d have my cubicle.
I’d toss notes over my wall to (cross my fingers) fun gossiping co-workers, gab about weird callers on the telephone, tack up blue chalk colored stick figures drawn from cute nephews and nieces that live far away, and dig out the sand sculpture from my mom’s hallway closet that she threatens to throw away every year. So….on this note…which seat would you sit down in everyday, which space in a lot would you feel hands-down with, in shutting off your engine to, and which of these jobs would get you to push the elevator button over and over on, to race up/down the flights to the job of your dreamy dream dreams?