Sandra’s pen has gone missing, and she finds herself using one of an inferior grade.
“The friction is all wrong on this one,” she states. She is at my desk, pushing the imposter across a piece of paper, scribbling examples of ink integrity. “Look at this – on the outside, it looks like my regular pen, right? But it’s not.”
I’m going to go along with her here. If she believes that I know what her usual pen looks like, I’m going to let her believe that.
Hey. We’re friends.
But apparently the two pens are not alike. And I understand that.
I, myself, am the same as Sandra regarding pens, being a mad fan of the Sanford “uni-ball”.
Now that’s a smooth pen, the Sanford uni-ball. Writes like chocolate pudding.
Dwell on that for a moment.
It’s funny, the things we believe we need. I’ve had bosses who require a yellow – not a white – legal pad, a friend who will only eat cheese if it’s melted, an acquaintance who never leaves the house without a little leather pouch containing a medium-sized piece of crystal and “healing gems”.
I don’t ask for much, especially at work. I’d prefer not to share a desk. Picking up your drycleaning is not what is meant by the “duties as needed” line in the job description.
And I’d rather not see you changing your pants.
After 10 – 15 minutes of rummaging, a moment spent grubbing around under her desk, Sandra has found her pen. She has returned to her work, her eyes intent on the paper in front of her, her pen poised.
All is well at work.
All is well this Monday.
8 hours ago