Moving Day

I consider myself rather easy going when it comes to space. I've lived in great placed but also some dumps. When I first met my wife, I slept on a loaner mattress with a tapestry on it. I had a rabbit for many years  and let him hop around and, when younger, he would sometimes hop in bed with me. As he got older, his litter training got worse. I relegated him to a single room in the house but for a time did live with that. I sleep on a couch and shared offices with a copier and groundhogs. Not at the same job. 

At my corporate job they recently made me and some others move cubicles. This was part of a plan that would surely solve problems and foster collaboration. To get through each day I rely on a combination of weaponized anxiety and professional positive detection. The anxiety is self explanatory. I do not trust anyone without it. All the wrong people have imposter syndrome. 

Professional positive dejection is the sanitized version of the "Right on top of that, Rose" from Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter is Dead. It is a bit safer than "Bless your heart" because it is supplication. I find myself saying "it is what it is" more often and it's the slick way to say that. I packed my things and moved beacuse it'd what the company told me to do. I work in an office with spreadsheets and emails. This is not me agreeing to flip the order the bomb drop or rat out the migrants. The stated benefits of the move are equal to how dull it is.

When I worked at the school, space was a weapon. Custodians with union contracts and admins set on their own tiny space conflicted with teachers needing to do a bit of everything. I never decided who had to move rooms but was the guy who had to make it so. I'm lost in a teacher's doe jade eyes as she pleads how unfair this is. I'm just here to move boxes. This was a job where I was way too emotionally attached to things. In the aforementioned moment I'm "You know you are right. I'll hold your earring while you fight the actual person who decided this." Or, I feel it's justified. Get over it. I share an office with the copier and a radiator that spits steam both up and down. Each room is the same in size with only difference being the number of steps.

One thing I am particular on space is clutter. It hurts my soul and I will fret moving idle dishes and things around. There can be stuff but it's there either because that is it homes or I'm to busy shuffling other things out of site. Older everyday, I find this bouncing around rewarding and harrowing. "You are become your mother," my wife says with an eye roll and a glance to more Instagram reels. She is right.