Seven years

Today is the seven year anniversary of being in my current job. Seven. SEVEN. I don’t know how that happened. I mean, I know how that happened. I’m lazy, and I abhor change, and I’m not particularly ambitious. I’m also good at what I do, and I don’t have to deal with customer service, which I appreciate. That’s a topic for another day, though.

Today, as I am trying to wrap my brain around seven years in my position, I am struck by the fact that I’ve never actually nested here. There isn’t a single thing on my desk that would indicate who sits here: no pictures, no knickknacks, no plants. Nothing. I spend 40 hours a week at this desk. A full third of every weekday. And I have nothing here at all of my own, for comfort or as a reflection of my personality. If I were to stand up right now and walk out of this building, I would only leave behind a bottle of Excedrin and a lint roller in my top desk drawer. That’s it. Seven years, and I’d leave no trace of myself.


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