Many, Many Questions

She looked at the time, which was peering at her in muted gray block letters in her car’s dashboard. She was sure she wouldn’t make it. Once again, traffic, her arch nemesis, had reared its ugly head, like it did every morning. Her thoughts were scattered, and as she looked ahead, into the endless sea of cars, she gave up.

“I’ll get there, when I get there,” she sighed.

While she moved an inch, she thought of all the places she’d rather be. In bed perhaps, having a long, drawn out breakfast. At her typewriter, which she hadn’t used in at least a year. The ribbon didn’t work, but that didn’t matter. Replacing it was just another opportunity to be anywhere but where she was headed to.

At least the weather was partially on her side, she thought, as she couldn’t see the emblazoned Los Angeles sun anywhere to be found. The gray skies, the rain, the gloominess of it all…it felt like home to her.  Maybe it reflected how she felt on the inside, but she didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing.

The traffic began to clear up, and although she breathed a sigh of relief, she was secretly wishing it would have gotten so bad, and it would have made her so frustrated, that she would have just turned around and gone home to bury her face in her pillow and unmade bed.

As she thought about driving, she came to the realization that her life was spent in small, confined spaces, which she likened to boxes. She was in a box in her room. She left that box to go to her portable box, her car. After a while there, she reached another box, her cubicle, where she spent hours working and subsequently dreaming that she wasn’t working. Not working in the real sense of the word, anyway. She wanted to work, but the passion was missing, a common ingredient that’s lacking from the workforce. And there she was, one box in a million on an endless pavement of cement travelling to another box.

She was surprised how quickly she managed to reach her exit. Still late, but only by minutes. The streets were empty, with people at least. The cars however, as usual, were plenty. She rounded the corner, skimmed past a car that was blocking both lanes, and made it to the parking structure in one smooth swoop. The elevator ride was only 30 seconds, but it felt like hours. Her thoughts had started racing back and forth again, and she was afraid that the neurons firing inside would somehow find their way to manifest themselves on the outside, by lack of coordination, an unusual flushed face, or some other embarrassing ailment.

When she made it to the meeting room, her nerves calmed down. Another stressful situation dodged, she thought. She took out her notebook, lifted the pen tucked behind her ear and began writing anything just to take her mind off the situation. Most days she would just trace her name over and over again on paper, trying to see how different one signature would be from the next. As people shuffled in, and the presentation began, she tried to concentrate. Goals, priorities, performance, acquisitions. The words circled around her head and popped like bubbles.

Her efforts to keep her thoughts on what was contained in the room remained fruitless. It was then, that when she looked up across the table, outside that she couldn’t believe her eyes. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before. In fact, it was a common site in this part of town, but this time, it looked so inviting, so new, so refreshing.

It was sparkling, beckoning her to escape her box. Stretched out for miles, the blue glistening waves of the ocean, against the palm trees felt like an escape. She might have been exagerrating, but she felt like she was in prison. In a office supply, grey, computer-meeting room prison.

She looked away and back down to her notebook. Furiously jotting, the racing thoughts came back. One minute she knew what she wanted out of life, the next minute, she felt like nothing made sense. Except boxes. Boxes surrounded her. And as she sat there, she knew that she would figure it out. The question was when?