Sometimes, what you do is more important than where you do it
I’ve never measured my success in terms of the money I earned, because in truth it was never really enough. No matter how much I made, there were always financial demands that made my income seem thin, shaky and inadequate.
What really made me feel my oats was where I sat—or hoped to sit—in the various companies where I did my work: the so-called status of place.
I remember my first corporate job mainly because of the discomfort I felt, sitting in an exposed bullpen, with no place to hang my jacket or place my wastebasket. Recurring noise and foot traffic shattered my concentration throughout the day. I longed for an enclosed office with a door I could shut.
Yes, I finally advanced to a cubicle, but talk about feeling closed in? I remember taking long walks—to the john or the coffee machine—just to escape, now and then. Also, my back to the corridor always left me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
When I finally got an office with a door, I felt I’d arrived. I don’t remember ever actually closing that door, though always rejoicing in the fact that I had a door if I ever needed or wanted to bang it shut.
A management job ultimately placed me in what was considered an excessively large office—it had eight windows!—which meant that I couldn’t occupy it alone, (I had to share it with my assistant) because it was felt that other executives more senior than I might object.
Nobody did, of course, possibly because that oversize office was situated so far out of mainstream traffic that people wanting to meet with me often called in advance to ask, as politely as possible, “Where the hell are you?”
Other jobs followed, but I was never accorded a corner office—not that I actually wanted one, having concluded, early on, that the higher one rises the more vulnerable one becomes. Anyone occupying a corner office seemed to wear a target on his back.
With the millennium came large-scale changes in the industry I’d persevered in, and though I was still employed—now as a consultant rather than an executive—my physical presence was variously satisfied.
Sometimes I was stuck in an office with three other people, or in a cubicle not far from vociferous sales-team members whose telephone bravado was a continual distraction. Pride of place had nothing to do with the work I was hired to perform or the fees I was being paid.
At the peak of my productivity, it was suggested that I work at home—something I’d never wanted to do but, at last, was ready for. My desk was positioned beside a window that looked out on trees, other buildings, of course, but a street that was only moderately busy.
Did I miss my colleagues? Not particularly. Did I feel like a shut-in? Only rarely. I learned to schedule business appointments cannily, so that I could often spend quality time away from my desk. The fact that I could conduct viable business in my bathrobe or briefs proved a definite advantage. Amazingly, I felt liberated.
Then reality set in. The facade of my apartment building, which was my business headquarters, needed repairs. And, according to local statutes, no exterior work could be done, no matter how seemingly minor, without shielding the sidewalk below.
So, up went a building-wide bridge that crushed some of my much-adored tree limbs and cut off my view of the street from my second-floor vantage point. Standing idle for many weeks and months, the bridge became a repository of fallen tree leaves and refuse—from upstairs residents too lazy to take out their trash.
So my view was compromised, but that was nothing. Suddenly, a work crew appeared—they were expected to be present for several months, I was told. Which meant that starting at about nine and ending well after five, I’d be looking out at a lot of activity and hearing languages spoken that I’d never heard before plus the searing sound of bricks being cut and installation work being done.
My windows had always been undressed. Now, finally, it was determined that some sort of temporary covering was necessary—to keep the nosy crew from peeking in to watch me eat breakfast or sit, riveted, at my laptop.
Once again, I felt closed in. Worse, I longed to have an office—a place to go to escape the din and all the action happening just a few feet outside my window.
Thinking back, I found myself reflecting favorably on a cubicle I’d once complained about vociferously. Working in it each day, back then, had made me feel a little less than successful. Visiting it now—if only I could—would make me feel, believe me, that I’d finally grasped the brass ring.
Today, one can do business from virtually anywhere without missing a beat. It’s convenient. It’s time-saving. It’s economical. But, you know, nothing quite rivals having a comfortable and actual—as opposed to virtual—place to work.
I know of consultants so compulsive they take their iPads or laptops along on toilet breaks. I’ll never do that. Nor will I post a sign in my building’s elevator enjoining neighbors to do something more thoughtful and positive than toss empty water bottles and old toothbrushes out their front windows.
Eventually, all the repairs will be made, and the work crew and the bridge will be gone. Once again I’ll be able to monitor my trees through the changing seasons and watch the arrival and departure of hungry city birds. I’ll feel successful again and rich in the realization that being at home and at peace may well be the best place in the business world to be.
Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons