Back in the Swivel

 

With most everyone needling up in the country – scooping vaccines by the fistful – there’s a great deal of talk around what returning to a physical office will look like. How it will change the status quo and how we must all pitch in to successfully adapt. Pardon me if I don’t see things quite like this. I rarely do. 

Let’s say we do return to the office by the end of summer, reacclimating ourselves to a forgotten commute. Then what? Do we pretend everything is normal again? Do we begin milling by the printer complaining about ink or lack of laser luster? Do we walk over to someone’s desk in lieu of writing an actual email for a routine “how ya doin”? The bent elbow style of looming that makes everyone below you incredibly uncomfortable.  

For one thing, when I finally set foot in my office, I’ll have blinders on. Really. Because I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a horse. That horse, a stunning thoroughbred named Twinkle Hooves, calls Aqueduct Racetrack home. Over the years, he’s accumulated a few extra sets of blinders, one of which I’ll wear in the office to prevent excessive interaction with coworkers. I might as well take a feedbag off his hooves, since I shall be cherishing my lunchtime solitude. There won’t be any random burrito bowls or salad lines for me. I’ll eat whatever’s in front of me, with the help of Twinkle’s mealtime accoutrement. However, my tools won’t stop there. No, not by a longshot. 

I’ve also procured a few extra sets of heavy-duty earmuffs, the kind of thing worn by airport professionals (airpros?) skillfully guiding jumbo jets safely to their chosen gate. The bright colors will be enough of a deterrent for most people looking for an afternoon chat. I may even bring some of those orange glow stick things to subtly move someone onto another cubicle. 

If you’re noticing a theme, good for you. You haven’t lost the ability to notice the absurdly obvious. As it might be clear by now, I don’t want any more interactions than I need to have. Should a coworker hover by my desk like a silly buzzing drone, I’ll tell them in uncertain terms, using aviation vernacular (gross navigational error), that they are interfering dangerously with my immediate airspace. Want to talk to me? Send an email like everyone else. In the old days, there was too much spontaneity in office life. Too many quick coffee conversations and random meditations on the previous night’s sporting most exciting event. And I can’t have that. 

Not now, not after all I’ve been through. Keep walking when you spot me in the office, unless you’re a horse named Twinkle Hooves, which in that case I hope you’ll accept a cashier’s check as payment.