I got to work at 7:45, which is basically a world record for me. I got there early for an 8:00 meeting. When I went to said meeting, the room was dark. And empty. Turns out the meeting got cancelled, but nobody bothered to tell me. It was like I was living in an alternate universe.
So, I settled in to read everything in Globotron's Sharepoint site. It was mind-numbing. So I also did a fair amount of daydreaming. A sampling:
- My cubemate talks to herself. She just said, "Raffle tickets? Sounds good!" What am I supposed to do with this? What are these raffle tickets for? Do I need some? Why can't she either engage me in conversation or keep her inner monologue inside, as it is an inner monologue?
- What if today's super boredom is a sign of things to come? What if I am truly just not meant to work in the corporate world and will be bored and die a slow, horrible death in any environment that involves cubicles? I could be home doing laundry right now. At least I would be productive.
- I need to chill the eff out.
- Banjo is definitely on to something with her suggestion that I combat the uncomfortable toilet seats by bringing my own in a roller bag that I take to and from the ladies' room. I always feel weird taking my purse to the bathroom during, you know, that time. But instead of shoving a tampon up my shirt sleeve and making a run to the ladies', maybe I could just pack a roller bag and completely flaunt it. Like, I'd have my smaller roller bag for regular days, a big roller bag for days Aunt Flo is visiting, and a jumbo, I'm-traveling-overseas-for-an-extended-period suitcase for those days that require the super-mega lady products, if you know what I mean. And I could design suitcases for these uses, complete with self-cleaning compartments for your grab-n-go toilet seat, and sassy designs that scream, "I'm a woman! And I'm dealing with my woman parts with this fabulous and stylish carry-all! Deal with it!" And then I could build an empire of pyramid marketing, like Mary Kay, and women could have home parties to sell the suitcases and personalized toilet seats and pretty soon I'd be hailed as a self-made millionaire who escaped Cubeland but also as a post-feminist charlatan who convinced women that they needed all these accoutrements to deal with their bodies, and as a women's studies minor, I'd be deeply conflicted, but conflicted in my beach house, not in Cubeland, so I could probably work through the guilt.