In case you were wondering – and it’s written all over your face, frankly – I’m here to tell you that the 47th floor, while a warm and friendly place brimming with intelligent and attractive people, smells of toast.
If you’ll recall, I recently moved from the 48th floor – where one is greeted with a comfy terrycloth robe and a bottle of prescription mood-enhancers at the elevator doors – to the 47th floor, where, apparently, one is greeted with the smell of toast.
“That’s not true,” Claudia said, when confronted with my toast suspicions. “Some days it also smells like bagels.”
She’s right, that Claudia. Some days it smells of both toast and bagels.
We’s versatile that way.
And in yet another case of “in case you were wondering”, the 47th Floor Fridge is everything it was rumored to be. So far, I’ve spotted a sandwich with the label “Happy Easter, Darling!” and a cheese that, with every opening of the refrigerator door, appears to be inching its way toward freedom.
I both cheer for and against that bit of cheese.
One never knows, when there’s a move within a company. Whether it’s to another floor, another department, to leave what we have come to refer, almost thoughtlessly, as our “comfort zone” is a leap of faith. Will I have any friends? Will someone from the 48th floor come down and steal the ceramic cup I stole from them? Will there be the smell of toast, and if so, what kind of toast?
So far, so good. I still have my stolen mug, many humorous words have been exchanged amongst a new set of humorous co-workers, and I have a date with the cheese this Friday night.
The whole experience? Well so far, it’s gouda for me.
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