I’m Having An Affair With My Old Office

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I'm Having An Affair With My Old Office

I have a confession to make: I’m in love with my former office. We all hear the phrase “Well the grass is always greener…” Yea? Well, fuck you. As a bit of background before I get into this hot, sultry, love affair, I left my office for an increase of around 20% in salary just shy of a year ago. I have to drive a bit further and there are some other minor changes, but honestly, it was worth it.

Working in government compounds the issue because I still have to work with my former office… a lot. They always make sure to say how much they miss me, how they think one day I will return, and how much they loathe my “replacement” (I put it in quotes because, let’s be honest, I cannot be replaced). Secretly, deep down, if I was offered the same salary and was whispered sweet nothings by my old desk chair, I would most definitely return.

This “affair” is nothing new. If I have to print stuff after hours, I will go to my old office and do it. If I need a pad of paper or a file folder, I stop by. I swear they let me keep my key just to torture me. I tried to return it to no avail. I both fear and anticipate the one day I get caught using an envelope, or faxing a document in my old office on the weekend. Just like that one time, during a college summer, being caught with my pants around my ankles when my main chick was supposed to be “home with the flu.” So wrong, but Oh. So. Right. It’s almost like that scene in Grease where everyone is singing and dancing, no one is pregnant and everything turned out A-Okay. Absolute Nirvana.

I loved [most of] the staff, I loved the position, I loved the sometimes unexpected “Why don’t you go ahead and head home early today.” It was all a dream. I often torture myself with what-could-have-beens and what ifs.

Then I quickly recall the psychos that used to casually stroll into that office, all jabbering nonsense and what have you. The coworker who was essentially Champ Kind from Anchorman, a misogynist who called all women and I mean ALL women babe, sugar or sweetie while being over 58 years of age, 55 pounds overweight and having the tact of a bear with explosives attached to its burly claws. The constant smell that crept in with half the people I saw during the day (booze, shit, smoke, urine, some strange combo of the aforementioned, you name it, my nostrils were infiltrated by it). All of that, and the almost constant phone ringing, and I soon remember why I did what I did — the money, the sweet, cold, green, slightly dusted with microscopic cocaine particles… money.

I will continue to engage in my torrid love affair with my former office in hopes she will never ask for more than that. That’s all it can ever be, and my current office can never, ever know about it.

Image via Shutterstock

My idea of a perfect government is one guy who sits in a small room at a desk, and the only thing he's allowed to decide is who to nuke.

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