odd pear

[I should be here. And by "here," I mean work. Yes, even on a Sunday.]

I have tried all weekend to muster the energy to go the office. I have tried to convince myself that just a few weekend hours will make all the difference for my Monday -- will magically transform tomorrow's deadline furor into bite-sized task.

But it's gorgeous out, you know: brisk air, bright sun, and sidewalks strewn with crisp leaves that crackle as you walk through them. Just the thought of my office, with its gray walls and no windows, makes me feel a little cheated. And my private pep talk turns quickly to whining.

Though Saturday and Sunday have been lovely, though I have remained both optimistic about what I can do come Monday and defiant about what I should have to do on my days off, these 48-hours have been dominated by "should" rather than "do": I should go. I should work. I should care obsessively about commas, periods, boldface, and one-inch margins.

I still haven't gone in to the office. But I'm not sure that I've won. The internal struggle has come to define my weekend, and the issue of work has taken center stage anyway. Instead of editing, I have napped. Instead of editing, I went to a party. Instead of editing, I cooked breakfast for friends.

I attribute much (ok, nearly all) of my current unhappinesses to this life in a cubicle, to work that is completely divorced from manual labor and tangible products -- work that demands long, computer-based hours while stationed at ergonomic chairs in fluorescent-lit rooms. I am, in fact, so certain of the deleterious effects of the office, I have convinced myself and a certain Mr. in my life that the only thing in this world that can restore the kind of whole-body happiness I used to have is to just walk away from the cube. Leave three-quarter walls and prairie dogging and morale building behind forever in favor of more creative work, physical work, or, really, anything work -- just as long it doesn't involve an office park.

Occasionally I worry that I am being melodramatic. I worry that the same zero-sum game awaits me no matter the occupation I pick. I worry that bullshit politics and vying and doublespeak are everywhere. I worry that the basic demand of any job in any field is to quietly put up with the crap. I worry that the real cause of the doldrums I'm in is something else entirely -- something I just can't see yet. But I try not to spend much time on this. Every choice has a set of naggy what-ifs attached, and I am tired of fearing the boogeyman.

Though I'm still the only person in the office who knows this, my end-of-cubicle-days countdown has begun.

So all that's left, I guess, is holding my breath and hoping my no-office-for-me theory is right.