so very alone…

I have what I’m pretty sure is a cold, but there’s an decent chance that I have strep throat. The doctor says I’m a “carrier” for strep, which means that I always test positive for strep, whether I have symptoms or not. Also, it means that if anyone in the office get strep, I have a pretty good idea where it came from. Not, of course, that anyone in the office knows I’m a carrier.

After Jane and I worked in the same conference room on a project for a couple of days, she came down with strep. I felt guilty, but I never told her where she probably got it. She said afterward that she actually enjoyed being able to read a lot, watch TV, and have an excuse for staying in bed all day, so I maybe I shouldn’t feel bad.

My little gift to the world: a sick day that’s not so bad that you can’t enjoy staying home and watching TV. Once you’ve picked up the necessary set of antibiotics, of course.

Anyway, I know some people like to be left alone when they’re sick, but I wish I had someone to take care of me. As things are, there’s really not much difference between a weekend when I’m sick and one where I’m not.

Isolation Score: 9

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My fridge is almost always empty. That means I mostly get my food from drive-through windows, because I don’t like sitting alone in restaurants.

But I don’t want to talk about restaurants right now. I want to talk about why my fridge is almost always empty.

It’s because I hate grocery shopping.

When you’re rolling through the aisles, filling up your cart, everyone can see what you’ve got. "Oh, look, he hasn’t bought any fresh produce at all." Or "Does he really need that many boxes of breakfast cereal?"

When you’re in a grocery store, everyone can tell you’re buying just for yourself — the amount of stuff you buy that’s perishable, the massive skewing toward packaged, prepared food instead of ingredients to make something yourself.

And then when you’re at the checkout stand, the person scanning the food looks at everything one item at a time, building a more-or-less complete picture of who you are and what you’ll be doing for the next week or so.

It’s as invasive as hell.

Isolation Score: 7

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Richard is a nice guy. At times, he seems too nice. Here’s what I don’t like about him:

* Whenever he leaves our office, he asks me if I want anything. Does this mean he wants me to ask him the same thing whenever I leave? Good luck with that!

* He talks non-stop. It’s all nice and pleasant chit-chat, but he seems uncomfortable by silence. I’m wondering how he even gets his job done. He keeps asking questions to draw me into the conversation, and when I don’t say anything, he just keeps babbling about nonsense. Floor plans and the Wizard of Oz and fancy restaurants.

* He acts like he knows me. Right in the middle of one of his stories, he said, “You probably don’t like Emma Franklin, but I think her version of blumblahblum is better than Janis Joplin’s.” Why would he think I don’t like Emma Franklin? I’ve never even heard of her.

* He thinks Frank Herbert is a better writer than Orson Scott Card. That almost sucked me in.

* He’s asked me several times why I have stuff scattered all over my desk. I wanted to tell him that for me, putting something in the file cabinet is just like putting it in the trash can. I keep stuff on my desk because it’s handy, that’s why. But that’s none of his business.

I will say this. I could be a whole lot worse.

Isolation score: 3

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I woke up late Saturday night/early Sunday morning in a panic. Something had to be done. Since falling back to sleep was out of the question, I decided to drive into the office and fix the situation. In the middle of the night, I thought it would be a good idea to take Richard’s desk and all of his stuff and move it all out into an alcove in the hallway. By plugging everything in, I figured it might work. Maybe Richard would think someone in IS reassigned him to the alcove, or maybe he’d get the message, and I’d have the office to myself. Just as I was getting ready to move all the stuff off Richard’s desk, I noticed a well-worn copy of “Speaker for the Dead.” Either he bought the book used — which I seriously doubt because people don’t buy used books that are that tattered — or he’s read the novel several times. So I drove back home and fell asleep right away, only to be awoken by a disturbing dream. Since I’m writing this blog with a fake name, I’ve been open about my insecurities and shortcomings as a human being, but there’s no way I’m ever going to write about that dream.

Oh, and good news! I won $235 playing online poker! Don’t be surprised if you see me playing Texas Hold Em on the Travel channel.

Isolation Score: 3

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I was so excited to come into the office today. I’d be getting my own office! Woopee! So I boxed my stuff first thing from my cubicle, put it on my chair, and wheeled it all to my new office.

And there was some asshole, already unpacking his stuff in there. His name is Richard B., but I think I’ll just call him Dick.

Me: Did I get the wrong office? Or did you?

Dick: What?

Me: I thought this is supposed to be my office.

Dick: Well, half of it is. I figured I’d take this desk, but you can have it if you want.

Me: There must be a mistake. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

So I went and found my manager, and asked what’s going on. He says there’s no mistake, that I’m getting a shared office. "Well, you could have told me that, prick," I said. Except I didn’t say the "prick" part out loud. I’m not crazy. (That’s a reference to Jonathan Coulton’s song, "Code Monkey," by the way.)

"It’s in the email," my manager said.

So I went back and re-read the email telling me I get an office, and it does say that I get a shared office. I guess I was so excited to be getting an office that I didn’t read the details as thoroughly as I should have.

Anyway, instead of having only a little privacy in my cubicle, I now have a shared office with no privacy whatsoever.

And if today’s any indication, Dick is quite the talkative type.

Isolation Score: Not High Enough

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I was talking with my sister last night, and told her I had gone to see Sweeney Todd. [Side note: I understand that it’s supposed to be interesting and clever to have a musical about a mass murderer, but it didn’t take me long to start thinking, "OK, I get the gag. Let’s move on."] Our conversation went like this:

Me: I went to Sweeney Todd last night.

Her: That’s great! I’m glad you’re finally doing something with other people.

Me: What?

Her: I’m glad you went to a movie. Who did you go with?

Me: I didn’t go with anyone.

Her: You went to a movie alone?

I am not exaggerating when I say she made it sound like I had just set fire to an orphanage.

I realize that going to a movie by yourself seems like a sad, lonely thing to do, but it really makes perfect sense. After all, once the movie begins, it’s not like you’re doing anything with the person you went to the movie with anyway. Sure, you’re sitting by each other, but you’re not talking with each other or looking at each other. If the movie’s any good, you mostly forget that the person by you even exists. In other words, you may as well be alone.

Still, I understand a lot of people feel embarrassed about being alone at a movie, so here are some tips for feeling comfortable at a movie by yourself.

1. Put your coat on the chair next to you. Everyone who sees you will think that the coat belongs to the person who is with you and that person is just buying popcorn, going to the bathroom, or checking in with the babysitter.

2. Buy two medium bags of popcorn instead of 1 large bag of popcorn. Put one of the bags of popcorn on the chair holding your coat. When you finish the first bag of popcorn partway through the movie, switch bags.

3. Put your drink in the armrest cupholder that is shared between your two chairs.

4. If someone asks if the chair is taken, say it is. You may think that someone would say "But that chair has been empty for five minutes," but nobody has ever has to me.

On another note, I get to move into my new office tomorrow afternoon.

Isolation Score: 4

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I know I’m painfully shy and awkward as an adult, but I haven’t always been that way. Sure, I was a shy kid when I was growing up, but I had a few close friends and my family life was good. We lived in a small town and I remember being able to leave the back of our house, walk across one street, and wander around in the middle of a huge forest with streams and frog ponds and rock quarries. We got excited about anything, whether it was a 4th of July parade or the new Walmart, which made us feel like we were hitting the big time. During the grand opening, we were amazed at how much stuff the store had — books and furniture and groceries and toys and anything you could find in the stores in our little downtown square. And the prices were lower.

Then we had to move.

My father ended up selling the hardware store that he’d taken over from my grandfather, and we moved to a city so that my Dad could work in a department store. My Mom took a job as a librarian. I don’t know how many of you are parents out there, but let me give you two pieces of advice. First, if your kids are happy, don’t move. Second, if you do move, make sure at least one of you is home when your children come home from school. Enough advice.

That first move crushed me. I left all my friends, including my best friend (Kevin Ellstrom, are you out there?). I remember trying to find new friends, but it just didn’t work. It also seemed like I jumped ahead in time. The new school had gangs and initiation rituals and I hated everything about it. The next time we moved, I thought it would get better, but it never did. It just got worse. In some ways, I feel like I’m still recovering from that first move away from home.

My father never recovered either. He was never close anymore. Whenever he looked at me, he forced a smile and appeared to be hiding frustration and anger. I thought he was ashamed of me.

To this day, going in to a Walmart is thrilling for me. It takes me back to the grand opening with my Mom and brother and sister. I feel a nostalgic feeling, and my senses open up. One odd thing is that I always feel a strong urge to void my bowels. And there’s always a sense of loss combined with memories of happier times. I’ll react differently depending on the circumstances. Sometimes, I’ll become filled with emotion and buy something I have no use for, like the time I bought eight patio chairs. I told the sales lady that we were expecting lots of company, so we needed lots of extra chairs. Even though I had no room for the chairs in my condo, I’m telling you it was worth every penny. The next day I went back to Walmart and stole a patio table. I figure it all evens out. 

Isolation score: 5

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I just got an email from my manager. Our company is expanding into the adjoining building, and as part of the move, I’m getting an office!

It will be an interior office (no window) but this is still the best news I have ever had in my life!

Isolation score: 1

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I thought writing this blog would help me open up and maybe fix some things that were wrong with me. But I’m still the same person inside, only now it feels like a bunch of people are staring at me while I’m inside a glass cage wearing nothing but underwear. Usually a particular mood prompts me to write something, and it feels right, and then when I go back to read it a few hours later I get sick to my stomach. What was I thinking! That happens more often than not, and the weird thing is that I know it’s going to happen with this post. At least I know I have the option of deleting the whole blog and making it all go away.

And then there are the people who leave comments. A lot of you are nice, but Lyle Lanley, if that’s your real name, what’s your problem? You’re a butthole. Only butthole may not be the right word because it doesn’t capture your sense of superiority, so I guess I could call you buttholier-than-thou. That’s my new name for you, Lyle Lanley!

And Eufemiano Fuentes, maybe it’s not such a good idea to accuse total strangers of being Jame Gumb. I have a feeling that Eufemiano Fuentes really is its name, and if it keeps it up, maybe some nut out there is going to make it put the lotion in the basket.

And Leland, maybe you’re the super freak. Did you stop to think about that? Why don’t you try saying something nice for a change?

And then there are all the people who think I’m not real. How do you think that makes me feel? I’ll tell you. It makes me feel like a cipher in the snow.

Isolation Score: 8

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I was up in the middle of the night thinking about all the possible repercussions of a borrowed plant, so instead of coming in early this morning to put the plant back in Jane’s cubicle, I drove to work in the middle of the night and put the plant back in the right place. When I got back in bed, I thought I would have slept like a baby once my source of night terror was gone, but no. I just kept thinking about everything that’s wrong with my life right now. I think the problem is that I need to do something bad enough to give me a low level of stress — enough stress to block more serious concerns — but not so stressful that the pain is overwhelming. I guess it’s like a person with arthritis wanting to deflect the pain by inflicting a gentler, more controllable pain. Stealing Jane’s plant was like drilling a hole in one of my molars. So I’m thinking of heading over to Walmart after work.

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