Private space was not always an issue for me. Back when I was working in the dungeon that is the basement of Strong Hall, we had precious little of this luxury. My only moments of freedom were gleaned from hanging out with my inveterate smokasaurus co-workers during periodic breaks. Certainly I couldn’t listen to music, or browse every last corner of the internet, without co-workers glancing over at what I was doing every now and then – even if I had the time.
This current job has quite spoiled me; now I command a large range of space. The space incorporates my desk, three feet to the side and immediately behind it. Should this inner sanctum be violated, I become extremely agitated. Alas, this is often the case.
There is the one professor who, though always very nice and considerate (she gave me a plant for New Year’s, currently withering away under the ministrations of my black thumb), has a habit that very much raises my hackles. Whenever she needs the keys to get to something, instead of bothering me by asking (which I’d actually prefer), she just walks behind my desk, opens the drawer with the keys in it, and just starts rifling through it. Cannot a girl waste idle time at work browsing non-work-safe hobo tentacle porn in peace? Quite seriously, she did this an hour ago, right when my computer speakers were playing the last strains of Kate Bush’s “Get Out of My House” (featuring Satanic hee-hawing. I love the song, but, like blue cheese, it’s certainly not for everyone, especially intrepid nosy professors).
Then, there is the professor who, though also perfectly polite and considerate in his own way to me, has the classical poindexter voice. He is the one who incorporates words like “stridently” and “assiduously” in departmental memos about curriculum changes. He is also a habitual violator of the no-loiter-zone directly behind my desk. He did so the other day, and just stared at my screen. Nothing was up except Winamp (drat the lack of NWS hobo tentacular display when it is sorely needed!), and he volunteered some minor chitchat about music players before finally vacating the sacred space.
Oddly enough, I think the lax nature of the work environment here has actually made me less easy-going about certain things. One of these days, I might get so defensive that I’ll start hissing and snarling, like my cat when he’s been petted for a second too long for his delicate composition :roll:
My attitude might be attributable to the sheer bulk and girth of my massive wooden desk – fostering delusions of grandeur and authority, in an otherwise humble profession.
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