Reclining on Sara's couch, legs stretched out in front of me, eating strawberry ice cream with a tinny-tasting welcome kit spoon, I felt very dreamy. If you could have opened my head at that moment it would have revealed a rainbow of glossy Lisa Frank unicorn colors, flowers and candy sketched in looped, animated lines spilling forth pinata-like to drift lazily along the floor. "I feel very young at work lately," I told her. "You are young," was the reply. But I've never thought of myself that way before. I've always been old, for as long as I can remember. We continued to proffer tidbits of information to each other, blindly groping for the click of a personal connection. It never came, despite our best efforts. I smiled apologetically, absently, wishing for her sake that I were different. She misses her friends from her old post, but is making the best of it.
At work, there are meetings. I've been marvelling at the gravitational pull of shoulder pads, the inherently duplicitous nature of seating arrangements ("After you." "No, you take the comfy chair, I insist..."). I sit in the back, in the corner. I don't need to be a big fish in this small pond. I'm given projects wholesale, neatly tied up in a package with explicit instructions and helpful diagrams. "Take this, Katie; you OWN it." Things pass through me cleanly, unmarred by my fingerprints. I am disappointed to see myself living down to their expectations. I suppose this is youth. It's as numbing as the insipid white walls of our office. I might as well blow bubbles on my balcony outside, and so I do.