Another week, another heavy thunderstorm, another evening spent foraging for vittles in the breakroom. You might call this a living manifestation of the grind, the rat race on loop, the hamster wheel turning with no end in sight, but you’d be wrong. Tonight was different, because I actually found food that wasn’t chocolate coins! It was a Caesar salad with chicken, in fact, and two fortune cookies. Was it the perfect dinner? No, of course not. Salads frighten me, frankly. You have to go to war with the army you’ve got, though, even if that army is hours-old poultry.
The days have been longer recently because I’ve been investing time in training a new team member. It’s an investment in the truest sense: an initial outlay of effort that promises, in just a few months, to pay off in spades. I’ve been approaching it with gusto for a few reasons. Selfishly, it’s an excellent opportunity to reflect on my own career–where I’ve been, where I’m going, how I’ll get there. More importantly, it’s a chance to put a few of my corporate theories into play.
Our time tonight is short, unfortunately, because lightning, of all things, threatens to undo our dialogue. The power already surged once, leading to an unwanted reboot, and I’ve been jamming the ol’ CTRL-S every few seconds since then. We’ll have to blog it up properly on Thursday, starting with candid look at sharing in the private sector. Yes, sharing. Turns out your kindergarten teacher may have been right all along.
You would think that remembering to renew a domain name would be top of mind for any website proprietor, since a site kinda needs one to exist, and missing a renewal is, like, the one thing you don’t want to do. Well, guess what? I forgot. Shameful, really, but sure enough, April 30 came and went, and days later I logged into Verio in a panic, mind racing over exactly how long the grace period would last, in the parlance of the late ’90s, for forgetful webmasters. You know, because online squatters have been waiting, ever so patiently, to strike in my moment of weakness.
Obviously my oversight was salvageable, and in a sigh of relief I doubled my customary renewal period to two years, such was my contrition. With my hosting service about to expire, too, I popped open the wallet again. No procrastination here, because I could easily picture an alternate reality in which a freshly renewed domain name would be pointing to absolutely nothing. Final damage was $45 for the upcoming year–a bargain, really, especially if I break it down to a per-post cost. I think of it as a gym membership for my brain, and if all it takes to feel smart is 50 cents, every time I hit the “publish” button, it’s a steal.
We were originally going to talk about careers and shit, but after a long day, it’s time to turn in. I had a late night at the office, and when dinner time rolled around, I attempted to scavenge for food in the breakroom, only to find slim pickings from our Cinco de Mayo festivities. An unplugged margarita machine. The collected innards of a slain piñata. A largely empty Tostitos bag with some crumbs in it. Before you ask, no, I didn’t combine all three things to make a meal. What I did do, however, was wrangle about a dozen chocolate coins, after which dinner, effectively, was served. Now, sufficiently malnourished yet strangely full, I’m off to bed, content with the valuable lesson I learned today: hitting things with a bat will likely result in a delicious outpouring of candy.
Every morning, in the skyway connecting the parking garage to the office building, a subtle game of positioning and last-minute reversals unfolds. The goal is simple: open the glass double doors without touching the handles. Why? Because it’s a high-traffic conduit, and I’m not particularly interested in collecting the germs du jour as part of my morning commute. Now, before you accuse me of being obsessive-compulsive or germaphobic, allow me to point out that a) I love germs, but mainly my own and b) it’s not like I’m compelled to touch every corner in the vestibule exactly four times. It’s actually three times.
Kidding! Certainly I could wash my hands immediately afterwards, but it just seems like a waste of time. Instead, I’ve been bringing my junk mail to deposit in the office shredding receptacle, which means I tend to have a promotional catalog of some sort that can double as a makeshift glove. And heck, if the latest unbidden issue of Ethan Allen isn’t available, I’ll bite the bullet, grab the door handle, and open it myself. Imagine that.
But there is a better option. If I’m sharing the elevator ride up with somebody, I will let the person out first, with a grand sweep of my hand and an “after you,” and then wait for the glass door to be held open for me. Terrible, I know, but at the same time, it’s a delicious rewiring of chivalry to serve my own dark ends. I have my own code of skyway ethics, too. Generally I will honor the “ladies first” etiquette, gallantly opening the glass door in a double-barreled salvo of courtesy. That said, if anybody fails to acknowledge my initial largesse in the elevator, man or woman, I sure as hell ain’t playing attendant and doorman.
There’s a lightning storm raging outside right now, and given the recent rash of tornados and inclement weather, it may be time to sign off. This will have to be your shocking ending, I suppose. Tonight’s post is more a preface to what we’ll discuss on Thursday–thoughts about career and five-year plans and marketing that I’ve had in this same skyway, far removed from the secret, labyrinthine tenets of elevator etiquette.