Throwing Poo

I started my new job this week.  Having spent the last five years working out of the home, here is something I had forgotten: going to work sucks ass.  Waking up before 9:00AM, showering, face-scraping (the kids call it “shaving”), wearing pants, and ceremoniously hanging a piece of silk from my neck.  Oh, how I hate this wretched daily ritual of applying workplace war paint. 

No longer can I fart, burp and curse with reckless abandon.  There must always be a hapless scapegoat within proximity. 

No more screaming, taunting victory dances that last until I collapse in a sweaty, breathless heap when I beat out margiewalsh1 from Iowa on eBay for more Gary Bussy memorabilia to add to my growing collection.

No more jerking awake to find a pool of drool on the desk that I then stream across my workspace with a series of make-shift channels using pencils and paper clips until it drips off the edge onto my unsuspecting cat, George, who is sleeping directly below, sending myself into convulsive guffaws until I pee myself a little (hopefully I’m wearing pants that day).

No more porn.

The other thing I really miss is being able to exercise whenever I want.  Going to the gym after work is out of the question.  The crowd is simply intolerable.   Anyone lucky enough to get on a machine will inevitably squat there and guard it like a fucking golden egg for the next twenty minutes, as if waiting for someone to offer them a trade. Who has the patience to wait for that?  Not me. And the last thing I need is to trigger a public screaming fit directed at some fat, bald guy warning him that, unless he is going to be giving birth in the next few minutes, it’s time he lifted his saggy ass up off the goddamn hip abduction machine.  Of course, I would be right, but no one ever seems to understand that small point.

Today I decided to take a long lunch and sneak in a workout at a new gym near my office.  In anticipation, I had packed a gym bag with clothes, a towel and a pad lock.  The workout went on without a hitch, and it wasn’t until I was back in the locker room that something dawned on me: I had not been naked in public for five years.  At home, during the summer months, I could go days without donning nary a pair of socks, unless you count as “clothing” the patches of cat fur that inevitably found their way to my clammier parts.  But now, being naked in a room full of old men, I felt strangely uneasy.  That’s when I realized that other than Nerdy Squirrel and our cats, Max and George, no one has seen me naked for the past five years (with Max & George, those moments mostly consisted of times when I needed to show them who’s the boss).  Of course, being an Irishman on a particularly frigid day didn’t help matters.

At that moment, I slumped down on the hard, wooden bench and tried to make sense of it all.

Changing jobs is a big deal.  Changing jobs and going from a home office to a traditional office is a bigger deal.  Changing jobs, changing surroundings, changing gyms and getting naked in front of strangers for the first time in five years is probably too much change for one week.