We’z at ur cubiclz, hoggin’ ur timez
Human Resources gave us nametags for our cubicles. It helps people navigate the fluorescent-lit maze of grey fabric walls with some purpose, but it also brings visitors.
This wouldn’t be a problem, except that I go to work to do work, and if I blow past someone in the hallway, whatever conversation I would have been stuck in automatically gets shunted to my cubicle, where I am even more trapped. Really—this problem has deeper roots, roots that reach down to the fact that when I walk around, I’m going somewhere, and it always to fulfill a basic need.
I don’t want to talk now, I have to urinate.
I don’t want to talk now, I have to poo.
I don’t want to talk now, I’m thirsty.
I don’t want to talk now, I’m hungry.
And as the fates would have it, whenever I’m walking back from satisfying one of the four drives that makes me walk to different places in the office, I never run into people. I like talking, but drives take priority. It’s why you teach children not to pester the dog while he’s eating. And it’s led me to increasingly awkward comments out of panic when someone traps me.
The last time it happened ended with me panicking and improvising.
“What are you up to?”
“Going to the bathroom,” I said, “that time of the week again.”
And I scurried off.