Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Interim
My walls are bare. My shelves are half empty. And I'm dying to listen to Once More With Feeling, but of course it's in my other office.
Straddling two jobs is weird.
There are still some last-minute things to wrap up for my current job, but not many. I've done more work this summer than I have in who knows how long to make sure I didn't leave anyone in the lurch. And because I'm anal, I've spent days upon days writing "how-to" documents and wondering if my file organization is going to make sense to a new person. On my to-do list today: Labeling Eckerd envelopes full of photos. Sure, I know what all those events are. But the person-to-come-next won't. Why I care? Good question. I want to be thought well of by someone I've likely yet to meet. (Unless, of course, it's one of the countless people calling me these days. Who knew quitting would make me so popular? Every time my phone rings, an acquaintance starts with, "Congratulations!" and quickly segues to, "So, how much do you make?")
Most of my to-do list, though, is full of things for the next job. About half of my week is going to be spent walking from a meeting over there to an empty office here. This should be the week I wear all the snazzy capris and sleeveless shirts that won't be suitable once I'm the Person In Charge of a staff of 40 students, but because of all the meetings, I'm in all my brand-new Important Person clothes instead. Harrumph.
And I'm nervous about the whole Important Person role, anyway. Without getting into many details about the new job (because we all know how dangerous that can be), I'll just say I'm going home. Back to the place I grew up as a student. And not to be a student there, to be a professional who's supposed to have all the answers, is a little daunting. In my interview, I said, "It's a good thing all you people have known me in the 10 years since I started here as a student. I'd be afraid you picture me in the cutoffs and half-shirts I wore then." With a glint in her eye, my boss-to-be replied that "(Name inserted here) remembers."
It's home, but it hasn't been for years. My new office is one that I spent a great deal of time in as a student. It's incredibly odd to be on the other side of the desk. An alum, someone I knew way back when, was visiting yesterday. We ended up chatting in my new office, me all official behind the desk, my paltry knickknacks lonely on the shelf.
I've spent five years at this desk. There's a drawer that can only be opened with the tip of a pen and the flip of a wrist. Right here, three years ago, I mastered the art of scrolling through blogs with one hand while using the other to hold a giant cow-making suction cup to my breast. And I spilled the precious milk only a handful of times, really. Usually when Omar made me laugh.
I'm not nostalgic about this job, per se. I've done all I can here; it's time to move on. But the building. It's one of those gorgeous collegiate gothic styles, with polished wood and marble. Brick tiles. High ceilings. Bas reliefs and sculptures perching in alcoves. And I'm moving from this majesty to flecked green floors and brown walls. My office is nice, with a window and all, but the building itself ... It might not be known as the ugliest on campus, but it's pretty high on that list.
But talk about nostalgia. Adam and I met in the room my office opens onto. Most of my lifelong friends were made there, over pizza and proofs. It's where my mentors, the folks I most admire and respect, taught me how to be a professional.
And I'm soon to be one of them. A peer. In charge. With all those young faces looking to me for guidance. Part of the campus hierarchy.
Wish me luck.
Straddling two jobs is weird.
There are still some last-minute things to wrap up for my current job, but not many. I've done more work this summer than I have in who knows how long to make sure I didn't leave anyone in the lurch. And because I'm anal, I've spent days upon days writing "how-to" documents and wondering if my file organization is going to make sense to a new person. On my to-do list today: Labeling Eckerd envelopes full of photos. Sure, I know what all those events are. But the person-to-come-next won't. Why I care? Good question. I want to be thought well of by someone I've likely yet to meet. (Unless, of course, it's one of the countless people calling me these days. Who knew quitting would make me so popular? Every time my phone rings, an acquaintance starts with, "Congratulations!" and quickly segues to, "So, how much do you make?")
Most of my to-do list, though, is full of things for the next job. About half of my week is going to be spent walking from a meeting over there to an empty office here. This should be the week I wear all the snazzy capris and sleeveless shirts that won't be suitable once I'm the Person In Charge of a staff of 40 students, but because of all the meetings, I'm in all my brand-new Important Person clothes instead. Harrumph.
And I'm nervous about the whole Important Person role, anyway. Without getting into many details about the new job (because we all know how dangerous that can be), I'll just say I'm going home. Back to the place I grew up as a student. And not to be a student there, to be a professional who's supposed to have all the answers, is a little daunting. In my interview, I said, "It's a good thing all you people have known me in the 10 years since I started here as a student. I'd be afraid you picture me in the cutoffs and half-shirts I wore then." With a glint in her eye, my boss-to-be replied that "(Name inserted here) remembers."
It's home, but it hasn't been for years. My new office is one that I spent a great deal of time in as a student. It's incredibly odd to be on the other side of the desk. An alum, someone I knew way back when, was visiting yesterday. We ended up chatting in my new office, me all official behind the desk, my paltry knickknacks lonely on the shelf.
I've spent five years at this desk. There's a drawer that can only be opened with the tip of a pen and the flip of a wrist. Right here, three years ago, I mastered the art of scrolling through blogs with one hand while using the other to hold a giant cow-making suction cup to my breast. And I spilled the precious milk only a handful of times, really. Usually when Omar made me laugh.
I'm not nostalgic about this job, per se. I've done all I can here; it's time to move on. But the building. It's one of those gorgeous collegiate gothic styles, with polished wood and marble. Brick tiles. High ceilings. Bas reliefs and sculptures perching in alcoves. And I'm moving from this majesty to flecked green floors and brown walls. My office is nice, with a window and all, but the building itself ... It might not be known as the ugliest on campus, but it's pretty high on that list.
But talk about nostalgia. Adam and I met in the room my office opens onto. Most of my lifelong friends were made there, over pizza and proofs. It's where my mentors, the folks I most admire and respect, taught me how to be a professional.
And I'm soon to be one of them. A peer. In charge. With all those young faces looking to me for guidance. Part of the campus hierarchy.
Wish me luck.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Spread it around
