idiotsguide's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Part of Pompeii, maybe Her fingers hovered over the mouse, the twitch almost imperceptible. It would be too easy to just click on her email. For what? Who knows. Another offer for Viagra? Or a letter from some Kenyan ‘relative’ promising her untold riches in exchange for the list of numbers that made up her banking information. Or maybe there might be a letter from her brother, so caught up in the raising of his 4 year-old child that he barely had time to shoot off the occasional email. But more than likely, there would be another request from her boss. ‘Print this for me.” In this day and age? A boss who needed emails printed off so that he could read them? And who would then pen responses that she was supposed to type as his response. Yeah, sure. Everyone used pen and paper – unlike the future histories that Asimov and Del Ray wrote about, where everything was done via Dictaphone and photostatic responses – but who actually had the gall to demand that emails be printed off? Wasn’t the whole point of email to be faster and more efficient than typewriters? If you were going to hand-write responses to emails, why not just break out the granite and chisels? Eh. She considered browsing the Rehoboth Collection summer sales. A few minutes looking at clothes that she wasn’t going to buy, but might consider, would allow the minute hand to move a tick or two closer to 5pm. She clicked, impulsively. The emails could wait for a minute or two. How much better to look at ‘professional’ clothes that would be comfortable. Gauzy, flowing skirts, peasant blouses that had been in and out (but mostly out) of fashion for the last 50 years. But the catalogue always showed the models wearing sandals. And she was NOT a sandal person. Her toes were too long for the traditional ‘thong-between-the-big-and-next-toe’ look, because her toes always hung over the end of the sandals. But if she didn’t have an anchor, her feet would completely slide out the front end of the sandals. But the summer catalogues always showed sandals. All of the impossibly cute clothes suddenly looked much less cut when you pictured them with pumps or, may the fashion gods forbid, tennis shoes. Of course the tan line created by her bicycle socks didn’t help matters. The very defined line right at her ankles that separated her pinkish-tanned legs from her pasty white feet. Feet that might have seen sun when she was a child at the swimming pool, back in the days when sunscreen was called ‘sun tan oil’ and sunburned cheeks were considered healthy, as long as they were the appropriate color of pink. Feet that were now a shade of ivory that only vampires dreamed of. The longer that summer went on, the sharper the contrast between the skin that the sun had seen, and the skin the sun hadn’t, all of which made the ‘summery outfits with sandals’ even further out of reach. The tan line issue was really secondary, anyway. Even when she did order some clothes (after much debate, several looks at the online pictures, the paper-catalogue pictures, and examining comparable items at other online stores), they rarely worked out; the pants would fit in the hips, but be too big in the waist, or she didn’t thrust her chest out enough to make the clothes look flattering, like the models did, or, well, she really needed sandals to make the whole outfit work. But it was a pleasant diversion. Did it accomplish anything? Of course not. Except eat up a few more ticks on that clock. Another anachronism. Did all government organizations have to have the ubiquitous round white-faced clock with black numbers? Wasn’t this supposed to be the age of hovering digital images, pneumatic tubes, and happy, drone-like workers? Pneumatic tubes. How much cooler was the idea of pneumatic tubes than email? Besides, if she had pneumatic tubes, her boss could receive and respond to his own damned messaged, and not have to require her to make hard copies of messages that really only exist in the vast supply of 0s and 1s in the world. She glanced back up at the big clock on the wall, the half-walls of her cubicle giving her a clear view of the time. Half-heartedly she glanced at the computer screen; no way were her two-toned ankles look good in the Capri pants that were At The Best Price of The Summer. She closed the screen, and stared blankly at the digital sunflowers that replaced the internet. Did the management really think that fake sunflowers were going to inspire her to greater levels of loyalty and employee enthusiasm? A window would have been much better. Or letting employees leave at 4:30, rather than making them stay until 5. Either of those would have done wonders in making her more productive. How did it all happen? A mere 12 years ago, she had been starting college, full of enthusiasm, ready to “embrace life” – just like it said in the catalog full of smiling people carrying textbooks, faculty in white coats bending over lab tables, couples sharing a study break over the table in the library, two girls spearing lettuce in “one the many family-style dining facilities found on campus”, and a group of attractive, chaste young people watching TV in a dorm. In short, it promised life long friends, a fulfilling career, and the good chance that you’d fall deeply in love. Damn it. Damn him. Sandals and blouses and summer dresses and handbags weren’t going to change any of that. He was living in a big house with a swimming pool and room for a pony, and she was sitting in a cubicle, contemplating $9.99 sandals. She sighed. Maybe tomorrow would be a good day to call in sick. 10:00 p.m. - 2007-08-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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