It’s been a weird week at work. Weird, sad and now lonely. Boo freakin’ hoo. So I started wandering around the [pretty empty] office and it got me thinking about work spaces.
Why do we feel the need to personalize our space at work? To create a home away from home? To make it light and friendly since we willingly commit 40 hours each week? To remind ourselves why we come to work everyday? To make “throwing in the towel” harder because we don’t want to carry all this crap to the car?
I realized that my work space is personalized with work memories. Besides a few family photos, everything else at my desk is a memory, a reminder of my past co-workers. The people I spent more time with than my dogs Monday through Friday.
There’s a picture of me and Nanners in Marietta. A one-of-a-kind post card from Tooty.
The daisy-infested skateboard I designed for The Pedestrian Duo’s art show. A ticket from the WauWau Sisters burlesque comedy show.
The calendar quote from The Officethat JWingo thought I’d enjoy (and I do). A big red lobster sucker from VJ’s trip to the Northeast.
The Non-Sequitur comic that was given to me from a colleague who referred to me as a buzz-kill (yeah, I’m still trying to figure that one out but I do like the comic).
So this week, while the BossLady was packing up her office for her new job in Nash-Vegas *tear* *sob* *WHY ME!!!*, I acquired a few new pieces to add to the tchotchke collage. The legacy of the BossLady is now in my work space.
The BossLady gave some words of wisdom to shine light on any situation I may face in the future.
She relinquished her Mardi Gras beads. Passed on a vendor gift of a miniature billboard. (I do media, people.)
I now own the plant she will not entrust to Jeff any more as he’s nearly killed it twice. May it live forever.
Her disinfecting wipes sit on my desktop. We have a mutual understanding of keeping things disinfected. She gets me.
Hopefully these treasures (and every time I use a disinfecting wipe) will remind me of her adept mannerisms, her supportive advice, her contagious laugh, her voice yelling my name in our echoey office. Because while most people are not fans of their bosses, I liked mine. My BossLady, or rather my former BossLady, was… she was… well…she was The Shit. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart, MB. Good luck in the land of boot scootin’ boogy.
Note: “The Shit” is not to be confused with “shit” which is a derrogatory term meaning something entirely different.