Working In Exile

A few weeks ago, my boss told me that my work location would be changing two days a week. I was not thrilled about this news.

Today was the first day. My new assignment is in our grittiest, most urban location. (Dave, I am sure you can put two and two together and figure out where I am spending my Mondays and Tuesdays now, although I am not going to come right out and say it on the blog.) The day got off to a rough start.

I left the house earlier than usual in an attempt to avoid rush hour traffic on the new, longer commute to downtown. Didn't work. The drive in was an adrenaline-laced, white knuckled, profanity-inducing experience that I am not looking forward to repeating this afternoon. Parking? Hassle. Neighborhood? Not the greatest. I won't be working after dark. Ever.

It turns out that a procedure I had been told I only needed to be physically present for was something I was expected to handle on my own. I've never used this equipment before, so I ended up calling for someone to come over from main campus to show me how to use it. Less than ideal.

And now I am sitting in a very cold, austere office at lunchtime. I'm staring at blank white walls and a tiny monitor. I cannot play music because there are no speakers. This is unfortunate, because the office seems to share a wall with the staff restroom and I can hear pretty much everything that goes on in there. As well as every conversation at the front desk and waiting area right outside my door.

The good news is that it cannot possibly get much worse, so it has to get better. Right? I'll repeat the often-used mantra of unhappy employees everywhere in these troubled times: "At least I have a job."