
You hate your job. You despise your job, actually. You get sick to your stomach every Monday morning and the sense of dread doesn’t let up until TGIF Happy Hour. Okay, maybe you don’t TOTALLY hate your job. There is that cute guy in billing, you did work hard to get where you are so far, and the money is decent, even though you deserve more. But you can’t let go of that feeling that there’s something more.
You fantasize about quitting. You create elaborate scenarios in your head that involve telling your boss to take this job and shove it where the sun don’t shine. You visualize cleaning out your office, walking out the front door, unshackling your chains, and throwing debris up in the air as you start break dancing to the perfect soundtrack that rocks you right into the life your dying to live -- which is any life except this one.
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My husband is taking me on a tour of his new office building. It’s two years old, very modern, sleek, and colored a light smoky blue. We enter the marketing/sales wing, a square 50 yard rat maze of cubicles. There’s not one picture on the walls, and only one dusty, fake plant in a sea of fabricated half walls.
“What do you think?” he asks, weaving his way to his office. If they had not put a name plate on it, I’m not sure he, or anyone else, would be able to locate it twice.
“It’s awfully….sterile.” I whisper.
He looks around, as if he is SEEING his work space for the first time. “Yeah, it is kind of empty.” A room full of 43 people -- devoid of life. Not exactly the place I’d want anyone to spend the majority of their waking time.
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