Sunday, May 11, 2008

Cubicle, sweet cubicle.

It was my first day of work at the State Department of Labor in my new position of Statistician for the Bureau of Labor Statistics. The date was December 17th, 1990.

I showed up with a tie on (first mistake), and was lead through puke-colored partitions to a small square of real estate located in the back corner of a massive cubicle farm.

"Heres your cubic- er, your workspace," said Chuck, the project assistant for the Bureau, looking somewhat embarrassed.

"It's okay, you can call it a cubicle," I said. "After all, that's what it is." He grinned and said, "Yep, you have to be a Section Chief to get a window, and you have to be a Bureau Director to get a door."

"I guess we're just too smart to get a window or a door," I said. He smiled, and I knew I had an ally.


18 years later, I'm back to the cubicle. My office with a door (without a window because it's in a basement cum bomb shelter) is now Mary's domain, our accountant who needs a lot more space and a lot more privacy than I really wanted. I want to be interrupted. I love my staff and I enjoy their company.

So the old cubicle is a mess, but it's a pleasant sort of disorder.

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