Underachievers Please Try Harder

This giant solid mahogany desk sat in the cluttered storage room in the shop my Dad had when I was a little girl. I used to weave my way through the bookcases filled with miscellaneous car parts smelling of grease to get to the abandoned desk. It had three drawers on each side, and a top so big my arm could not reach the wall when I was seated at the desk. The dark reddish wood drawers (say it with me now NJ residents: droors) had simple u-shaped handles of a tarnished silver color. Together, the wood and the metal handles, and perhaps the age of the desk made the drawers very heavy and hard to open and close. They made funny sounds and smelled of old pen ink. What fascinated me most about the desk was the sense of ownership I felt over this imposing piece of furniture. My desk, my office. Here I came to work. I snatched up paper and office supplies from the offices on the lower floor and made myself letterhead. I tried to think of important things to do while in there, but mostly it involved getting the drawers open and putting my office supplies away in them. Sometimes, I'd try to teach myself cursive, or at any rate how to sign my name in cursive, to seem more official. The best part of my office, my desk, were the two boards of polished wood secretly hidden above the three drawers on each side. You could pull out either, or both of the boards, to create additional desk space. I'm sure they have a name, no clue what it was. This feature was the highlight of the desk. As, it was, ever so important that I have more desk space to complete my important office tasks and sign my name on my important office documents.

I work in an office now. I sign my name far too often and it doesn't feel important. My floor is being renovated, so everyone was relocated. I'm down a couple floors in a hallway-like group of cubicles, complete with a desk. My large wooden desk is similar in size, not color or smell, unfortunately. The handles have been improved to a more art-deco style in tarnished brass. But the desk is complete with the additional pull out desk space. Unfortunately, it is now actually useful to my job. When I first situated myself at the desk last Friday, I pulled the wooden shelf in and out, happily. Then I wondered what I was thinking as a child and why the situation I now found myself in was something I had once pretended to do for fun. Maybe next time I'm at work, I'll pull out the shelf and pretend I'm David Geffen or Jacques Chirac. or maybe I'll just get my work done.