A Girl...

Office Space

One of my coworkers had a baby a few months ago and soon after decided she could do her work perfectly well from home and didn't need to come into the office anymore. What that means is that the most spacious one-person office on the whole floor was suddenly vacant and in need of a tenant. Those in charge tried to move our part-time sales consultant into the office, but he didn't want to give up his desk in front of a wall of windows looking out at San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. (He argued that he needed to be in the same room as the rest of the sales and marketing team, which is a valid enough point, but we all know it's all about the bridge.)

Then someone suggested I should have the office since an editor frequently needs the kind of peace and quiet you just don't get when your desk is in the main reception area, right in the middle of all the comings and goings and impromptu meetings and general drama and workplace shenanigans. I was taken aback. My own office? An office of my very own? Really? And I don't have to fight anyone for it? I won't incur the wrath of jealous coworkers who want an office all to themselves? It would be mine, mine, all mine?

So what did I do when they served up this metaphorical sundae with whipped cream and a cherry on top? I turned it down.

The thing is, I love the idea of having my own office, but I don't really want one in reality. I like being near the center of activity, feeling the rush of air from the whirlwind that powers this publishing company, and I would hate to be all cloistered away like a leper, closeted in a corner, never to be the first to know when someone famous sweeps through the door or when a box of chocolates appears on the table.

Am I crazy? Or am I just so incredibly in tune with my likes and dislikes that I can turn down chances to improve my image and status for the sake of maintaining my own comfort? I like to think the latter, but even that's not always a good thing.

For instance, if I lived my life afraid to be uncomfortable, I would not being going to Chez Panisse tomorrow for lunch with a client. Chez Panisse is the place to be seen in Berkeley, and perhaps even in the whole of Northern California. It is where "California cuisine" (fresh produce, etc.) was born, where you have reserve a dinner date three months in advance, where Martha Stewart brunches when in town. Nothing about a chic-chic restaurant that serves soft-shelled crabs and rare beef makes me comfortable. Going to lunch with a client from a printing company to whom I have absolutely nothing to say is terrifying. Nevertheless, I accepted the invitation. I will wear slacks and nice shoes and make polite conversation. And I will do it all not for my own pleasure and satisfaction, but purely in the name of bragging rights. Am I a fraud or an opportunist, or am I just doing what anyone else would do? Why, oh why, am I so conflicted and melodramatic about these things?