I woke up this morning thinking about my cube at work and then saw Stacie’s excellent comment on the same, so herewith, a few more thoughts on this subject. Ahem.
So, once upon a time, I sat in a really, really fantastic cube we’ll call Cube A. Then my boss at the time (a boss or two ago) decided he would like all of his people to sit closer to each other; this was back when there were people. Now there’s just me.
Thus I moved to Cube B, also a very nice cube, and the one I recently vacated. I’m not sure if that was an official move or what. At my company, a given group has to pay for the cubicles it’s using.
A couple of months ago, we heard from the Cube Organizer Lady, who I’ve never met, who was trying to sort out who owned what and who was sitting where. She told my boss that we didn’t own Cube B, but that my boss was actually still paying for Cube A.
“Fine,” said my boss. “We’ll take Cube A back, then.”
“No, no,” said the COL, “I’m going to transfer that officially to the group of the person who’s been sitting in it.”
“OK, then,” said my boss, “Please transfer the ownership of Cube B to me, since my person has been sitting in it for a year or two.”
“Oh, no can do. That’s our cube, because we are paying for it.”
Do you see the absolute wrongness of this? “If our person is sitting in the cube, it’s ours, regardless of who’s paying for it. On the other hand, if we’re paying for a cube, it’s also ours, regardless of who’s sitting in it.”
Unfortunately—and this should make it clear that all of my recent problems have been caused entirely by Emily—Emily was just then vacating Cube C, seemingly a desirable location, large and with a window. Ah! Simple solution! I would take Cube C.
Because of that, my boss allowed the COL to transfer the ownership of Cube A (really the best of the bunch) to the other group without a fight, and I physically vacated Cube B, thus substantially weakening my case for re-occupying it, though it’s only been a few weeks.
If it were up to me, I would go right back to the COL and say they can’t have it both ways. In fact, my boss did agree with this and even asked her boss to be ready to ride into battle, but just then, Emily departed, drat her.
Due to the amount of gossip that rightly and properly churns through my little group constantly, via phone and email since we’re all over the country, I know that my boss has lots of other vexing stuff to deal with, not to mention having to do her own job and live her own life, so I feel bad making an issue of this, which is why I particularly appreciated Stacie’s comment. I am right! Or, at least, my feelings are not unreasonable.
In case you’re wondering, Emily said the eating sounds didn’t bother her. If I could be like her in one way, that would be it. If I could be like her in two ways, I would be the type of person who sits quietly in my cube for six months and tries one thing after the other until I find a solution, as opposed to the type of person who works on something for ten seconds and then asks someone else, “Hey, ever seen something like this?”
I do have a theory about that: I think questions are my little way of ensuring I’m still connected to the human race and haven’t been completely abandoned. (Actually, I’m not sure I arrived at this theory on my own. I think my mother may have said something about this in past years, something like, “Questions are the way you relate” and “Jesus Christ, stop asking so many questions,” or words to that effect.)
Last night I dreamed of being in a completely empty house, because my housemates had all moved out, including my close friend Elea, without saying goodbye. I wandered the house calling, “Elea? Elea?” That’s pronounced “Ellie” but think “Elea.”
I was kind of excited about this dream, because I was thinking just last night, for the millionth time, about the purpose excess flesh serves in my life—flesh that is the result of food eaten that my body wasn’t hungry for. Jane and Carol recommend doing something they call the “thin fantasy,” in which you picture yourself smaller, see if there is any downside, and consider if you had that same problem in your childhood, and how you could help yourself with it now.
The goal here is not to be thin, but to sort out what is the most effective response to what and provide for oneself accordingly.
“You’re starving? Gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” is a mismatch.
So is, “You’re upset? Have a cookie! Have the whole box!”
When I tried the thin fantasy last night, I got that the extra flesh is a way of signaling that I need help, that I need the attention of others: that I don’t want to be alone, or am scared of being abandoned. So that dream seemed like a sign that I’m on the right track in identifying the underlying anxieties.
J & C, as we Overcoming Overeating practitioners call them, recommend developing a relationship with an “inner caretaker,” who helps us think through things and provides consistent encouragement and affection. I’ve had pretty good luck with this, but often go months without consulting my inner caretaker, maybe because I gave her a really over-the-top gooey affectionate voice that no in my life has ever sounded like or will ever sound like.
I think I have a better one now, as of this week, one who sounds pretty much like myself.
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