Working is Fun

I won the clock radio at a local video store. This was when there were still local video stores. A large canister full of jelly beans sat on the counter next to the register. On it there was a sign, "Guess how many jelly beans there are and win!" I dawdled by the register while my sister picked a movie. Three weeks later I received a phone call. I had come closest! I had won a clock radio! I vaguely remember feeling disappointment at not having won the canister of jelly beans as I believed that to be the prize. Instead I won something that would become the bane of my existence.

The clock radio had an alarm on it. My parents decided that this alarm would now do the job they had been tending to over the last 8 years, it would wake me up. And that it did. 8:45 a.m. through elementary school, 8:00 a.m. into middle school, 6:45 a.m. and a lot of snoozes in high school, for decoration purposes only in college. And now 7:45, every morning without fail, without summer, without snow days, for work. Despite having no special affinity for this ill begotten alarm clock, it has sat on my bedside table for about sixteen years now. It has traveled to two houses, three states, one dorm room and about four apartments. I can't outgrow the damn thing.

At 23 and three quarters, I have settled into the monotony of full time employment where the only thing worth looking forward to is early retirement or paid disability. The alarm clock greets me each morning, playing country music (as I have not bothered to figure out the local DC stations and can't stand the miserable beeping that is my alternative) at 7:45 a.m. (though in reality its 7:38 a.m. as I have set my clock 7 minutes ahead). I snooze once and turn over. It goes off again 8 minutes later. I snooze again. The second alarm (this clock is pretty snazzy, two alarm times!) goes off at 7:55 a.m. Now I am up and the country music is off. My light goes on immediately or else I go back to sleep. Coffee! Bathroom for girlie things and teeth brushing. Email! Read the NY Times quote of the day, read idealist.org job listings, read who has written on my Facebook wall. CNN! I hate John Anderson and Saved by the Bell is on TBS. TBS! I pluck my eyebrows. I do this daily, eventually I will have none. Make-up, hair, outfit, make my lunch, grab my shit. Out the door by 8:49 a.m. (which is really 8:42 a.m. because I have knowingly set my clock 7 minutes ahead).

IPod in, listen to "I Really Hate Tyra Banks" or "Planes are safe" play list? Shuffle. It's DC and its summer, I begin to sweat three steps out the door. I pass the MTV Real World house (who's cast I have yet to see since filming began a month ago) and try to look as coy and hot as possible. We all mock the Real World, god those kids are stupid, letting MTV exploit them like that. I hope someone will spy me out the window and come running outside, with cameras in tow, determined to strike up a friendship so I can be a star.

The elevator in my building is crowded and I work on the top floor. I detest the older man with the bike and his spandex shorts. Someone smells, I hope its not me. I get off the elevator and I'm late because the man with the bike took too long maneuvering his way out of the crowded elevator on his stop, the second floor. There should be a rule that one can only use the elevator if they are four flights of stairs up or more. God people are lazy.

I go in the back way so that no one in my department realizes its now 9:05. I put my lunch in the fridge and grab water. Safe at my desk. The blinking light on my phone tells me I have two new messages. I know who they are from. They are from Mames. One of the people in my department for which I am "support staff." This really means college educated bitch. Mames likes to call my desk and wait for the message machine to pick up. When that happens he hangs up without saying anything, causing the red light to flash and my blood to boil.

Gmail, work mail, voicemail. My priorities are in check. I sit in a hallway. A literal hallway which all my bosses walk down regularly to their adjoining offices. Merin sits across from me. Merin is also a college educated bitch for a related department. We exchange tired hello's. Do three work related things that each take ten seconds. Gchat for three hours. Mames calls me from his office. I get up and walk down the hall.

"Yes Mames." My voice drips with exasperation.
"I need you to warm these up for me." He doesn't look at me as he hands me a Krispie Kreme bag. I see three plump glazed doughnuts through the sheer plastic.
"Mames." Exasperation turns into disgust.
"I have to be on this conference call or else I would do it." He still doesn't look me in the eye, he is checking his blackberry.
"Eat them cold."
"You can't eat a doughnut cold. You gotta put them in the toaster, but make sure they don't burn." Mames shoes me away. My life is miserable.

I trek down to the office kitchen. The toaster is about 38 years old and takes forever, I lick glaze from inside of the empty bag. I watch like a hawk to make sure they don't burn. I deliver Mames his doughnuts and hope he'll offer me one. They look delicious. He doesn't.

I return to my desk and relay the story to Merin who wears many hats; co-worker, confidant, savior. She rolls her eyes and laughs. We talk about Mames some more. He is a 37 year-old black man who once entered himself in GQ's "Stylish Man of the Year" contest. He then asked the whole office to vote for him. His socks match his ties and his cuff links match his rings. He carries a large umbrella like a cane and owns men's rain boots. He wears men's espadrilles. He has a daughter and a girlfriend. He refers to himself as a playa. He once asked me to research the Canadian Mounted Police uniform for him. He wanted a pair of their uniform issue riding boots. We do not work with horses.

11:00 a.m. coffee; 11:30 a.m. snack; 12:00 p.m. Pandora; 1:00 p.m. Lunch.

Merin and I walk down the street to Starbucks with the lunches we've brought from home. We both rotate on the same schedule; sandwich, salad, sandwich, salad. We sit outside at Starbucks without going in to get anything. We don't get paid that much. I bitch about Mames she tells me about her day. We talk about happy hour, we probably won't go. We take out books and sit silently reading for an hour. We walk back to the office at 2:00 p.m. We stop at the news stand in our building lobby and I get a york peppermint patty. Every day.

3:00 p.m. and everyone in my department is in a meeting. I grab some nail polish that our director of administration gave to me. She thought it was too pink for her. I start painting my nails in the hall way that is my office. The whole office begins to smell like nail polish. I don't care. Merin and I discuss our plans to quit our jobs. Sometimes we lower our voices, today we don't. I do a second coat of nail polish.

4:58 p.m. and the taste of freedom is on my lips. I pack my bag with my cellphone, headphones, book and some stolen office pens for good measure. I turn off my computer monitor and go stand up to leave.

"Mephanie..." My boss calls me from her office which is right in front of my hallway desk. "Mephanie I know its five but I need you to send out this email for me after I finish writing it. I want it to come from your computer."
"Of course, not a problem. Never a problem!" I grit my teeth and wave bye to Merin who has been waiting for me. Why would it be a problem for me to sit here at my desk and wait for you to finish writing an email so you can send it to me, so that I can then send it exactly as you have written it, to its intended recipient. Its not like I have been doing nothing all day and was counting down the minutes until 5:00 p.m.. Of course that's not the case. Of course I don't mind.