They not only suck due to the lack of privacy when you are on the phone, or cruising super interesting and funny blogs, but also hearing your cubicle neighbour discuss such imperative things as the weird redish brown spot on his chin and his lame-o obsession with Hanna Barbera Characters, but I also have to deal with this: He eats chicken wings and coke everyday for a snack. EVERYDAY!
Not only am I grossed out by bones and skin in general, but the sound people make when they eat chicken wings is puke-inducing! Yes, I get it, the sauce is super tasty and you need to lick your fingers clean and stick the bones in your mouth and suck like a drunken sorority girl at the end of rush week. Perhaps you could do this in the lunch room? Or save your wing felatio fetish until you get home and can lights some candles and really enjoy yourself.
Does this only bother me so much because my own snack of light cottage cheese and sliced apple isn't as mouth-watering as deep-fried meat slathered in sugar sauce? Day 5 of this "get fit Project" is causing me to be a super bitch. Again I hit snooze on the alarm this morning. Many times. (This button gets more action than the candy necklace around the shirtless angel wing boy at a rave.) I have decided to give up on morning running (for now) and just do it in the evening. I feel better about this decision due to a recent comment from a reader. She is right, sleep is very important to overall health, and I can run when I get home....if I am not too tired ;)
I recently tried to fit some workout time into my day, I thought running in place and doing some old school push-ups and V-sits would be a better way to spend my 15 minute break, other than the usual water cooler nonsense I would have to endure in the lunch room. I waited for the other office drones around me to head to the lunch room or go out for their nicotine fix, and started jogging in place. I got a little bored and decided to do a little heel-step-kick jig, and since I am extremely uncoordinated I have to watch my feet as I do this. Rookie mistake! I look up, and there is my assistant. Staring at me like an idiot dancing in her cubicle. She puts a stack of paper down and mumbles something about them needing my signature and to sign my real name and not Ginger Rogers. I didn't get this joke at first; mainly because I didn't watch Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance in the 1930's. But I have decided that dancing in my cubicle, is probably a crappy idea to begin with. Most of the people here already think I am a dingbat because I tried to get the pizza party changed to a grilled chicken and salad party. I don't need to add more fuel to their fire. I will just dance in the bathroom stall from now on and if someone comes in I will just stop and pretend I am peeing.
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