This is my workstation. For the first time in my professional life I’m working in a cubicle. My professional life has indeed been privileged.

I make no claims to this workstation. I’ve added no personal touches -- no sticky notes with pithy quotes, no photos, no Lego toys. I haven’t changed the voicemail message nor asked IT to change the name associated with the phone number. I haven’t even personalized the preferences on my PC. My password remains Pa55word because if someone logged in and deleted all the files, I wouldn’t be terribly disturbed. Because I don’t claim them as mine.

As you can see my desk is a hot mess. I know this and I don’t care to remedy the situation. This is my rebellion, my refusal to comply with extreme standardization, my resistance to compartmentalization. Ultimately this makes it more difficult to do my work because I have to dig through these piles every time I’m looking for something. Maybe my co-workers think I’m a disorganized slob. That’s OK. This is bigger than office supplies. I’m onto some next level philosophical shit.

I predicted cube life would suck from day 1, when I was led to this cubicle where unused whiteboards and shredders were stored and was told this would be "your place". What I didn’t expect was the massive impact of cube life on my psyche. With such a complete lack of privacy, my nerves have been shattered by people approaching me from behind, both strangers and colleagues peering over my shoulder. I cringe at the thought of receiving a phone call because speaking above a whisper is an invitation to the entire room to listen in.

I’m baffled by the complete disregard for the invisible boundary between the opening of my cube and the hallway thoroughfare. Every day people casually drop their trash into my trashcan. No wait, I should be more specific: people drop their STINKY FOOD SCRAPS into my trashcan, just because it’s there and they’re lazy.

This is a nightmare for my OCD. I haven’t opened the drawers of my desk for fear that I’ll encounter a smudge or stain that I can neither identify nor eliminate with the paltry selection of chemicals in the community kitchen: dishwashing liquid and half a can of Comet. There’s a blot on the carpet, to the left of my chair, that is sticky and resistant to my boot’s toe picking and I’m trying very, VERY hard not to let it bother me but every time the sole of my shoe inadvertently touches it I’m once again drawn back into the TORTURE OF BEING SURROUNDED BY FILTHY FOREIGN MATTER I CANNOT ERADICATE. Today, every few minutes I can detect the distinct odor of feet. And it’s not my feet. It’s not any part of my body. I know it’s not my chair, my coat, nor my totebag either because I’ve covertly sniffed them all.

Don’t even get me started on the Ladies Room.

The lenses of my glasses are mottled with my oily fingerprints, from blotting my skin which has been rendered super oily by the combination of filtered air and artificial light. Yet I refuse to install a small box of Kleenex. Is this martyrdom or masochism?

Perhaps worst of all, there’s no music. I’ve already spoken about how sound carries but in addition to that, the donning of headphones would betray my disconnection and lack of commitment to this space.

And yet – amidst all of this hyper self-examination – I’m somehow able to churn out decent work, even the occasional strategic revelation.

*          *          *

The other day they had cupcakes – from Magnolia – for a woman who’s getting married and she said some really touching things about how overwhelmed she was by the gesture because she never imagined she’d be able to marry the person she loves (she's a lesbian), and that though she’d gone to a lot of weddings in her life, she always left early and I had to hold back my tears because I too always leave early (and not just weddings), unless I’m drunk. And even though I’m now 40 pounds overweight and struggle daily with coordinating an outfit that is reasonably attractive but at the same time doesn’t cut off my circulation, I LOVE Magnolia cupcakes and wanted to have one. But since I didn’t know ¾ of the people in the room, I didn’t feel comfortable reaching over to get one. Once the room began to empty and I finally did get one, like a bashful woodland creature I scurried back to my cubicle to eat it, aghast and ashamed of how 3 years of working from home had rendered me so socially inept.

The Creative Director recently remarked ”Lisa, you’re so quiet”. I replied that I was thinking, and that was true. I think too much. I also could have said I was observing, gathering data on this culture of compartmentalization and uncleanliness for people on my home planet. It’s kind of true, it’s just that the planet is in my head and my people are me.

But really what I had wanted to say was, yeah I’m kinda quiet and I’m even more quiet than usual because this place is so very foreign to me. You guys are decent people and I wish I could share with you some of the more interesting aspects of my personality, however not only am I prohibitively shy but I don’t want to invest emotionally in this place because…it’s so foreign. But I appreciate that you acknowledge my presence, and my name, because for a minute there I actually got out of my own head and felt welcome here.