Ironically enough, I’m having difficulty starting this narrative in a way I find satisfactory, which I’m sure will only enhance the sentiments and splendor of my usual PMS accounts.
Ever since I was a young girl, I recall my father mandating at meal times that I chew with my mouth closed. It used to drive me insane, and also make me very self-conscious about my eating habits, but not in a way that actually made me consciously periodically evaluate if I was consuming my food in an acceptable way. Like most lessons annoyingly bestowed on us by our elders, I vowed to never enforce that same silly lesson on my future generations, in a gesture of absurd rebelliousness.
At twenty-five, I’m far less surly than my father, but I’ve found I’ve grown into a rather comfortable disdain for mouth noises myself. And so, it seems only natural that as the cruel universe would have it- -I sit in a cubicle adjacent to what one might assume (from an auditory perspective) was a close cousin of Mr. Ed. “Mr. Ed,” like many corporate office gals is slightly older and has taken a faux interest in eating healthy, so to the delight of reverse peristalsis everywhere, I get to listen to Mr. Ed gnaw on carrots, celery and all of the other boys in the “loudest food in existence” band.
Ever since I was a young girl, I recall my father mandating at meal times that I chew with my mouth closed. It used to drive me insane, and also make me very self-conscious about my eating habits, but not in a way that actually made me consciously periodically evaluate if I was consuming my food in an acceptable way. Like most lessons annoyingly bestowed on us by our elders, I vowed to never enforce that same silly lesson on my future generations, in a gesture of absurd rebelliousness.
At twenty-five, I’m far less surly than my father, but I’ve found I’ve grown into a rather comfortable disdain for mouth noises myself. And so, it seems only natural that as the cruel universe would have it- -I sit in a cubicle adjacent to what one might assume (from an auditory perspective) was a close cousin of Mr. Ed. “Mr. Ed,” like many corporate office gals is slightly older and has taken a faux interest in eating healthy, so to the delight of reverse peristalsis everywhere, I get to listen to Mr. Ed gnaw on carrots, celery and all of the other boys in the “loudest food in existence” band.
The PMS is brutally debilitating today, and each interaction is more intolerable than the next. I’m even having great trepidation to respond to broker emails, for the fear of how they might interpret what I’m deeming a convincingly sincere response marked by forced pleasantries.
I’m now wearing large headphones at my desk. I attempted to listen to music, but I was fearful of what I might say to any co-worker who requested I turn down the volume. I thought an easy solution would be to listen to the classical music station on the radio- -except I forgot how unbearably annoying the DJ’s are, with their frequent and very sedated James Lipton-esque commentary. Then from time-to-time, as a glaringly paradoxical shift from the otherwise peaceful classical music, there is a news interruption that broadcasts the latest and most horrific war atrocities from the Middle East. The news reporter never fails to be British, and completely unaffected by the subject matter being reported on, no matter how awful. “Literally, infant limbs and entrails line the streets today in Baghdad as a bus carrying newborn children, puppies, and beloved Disney characters was destroyed by a…..” It’s ridiculous. So, needless to say, the classical music was promptly turned off, and now I’m just sitting at my desk like a psycho with very large, conspicuous headphones on that are plugged into nothing. It muffles the office sounds just enough to hear my own irrational thoughts clearly, although it makes everyone else sound like the voice the adults produce in the Charlie Brown cartoons; that sort of “womp womp womp.” It’s pretty glorious; I’m not going to lie. It could only be trumped by having a hyperbaric chamber in my cubicle. Man, where is one of those when you need it?
I’m now wearing large headphones at my desk. I attempted to listen to music, but I was fearful of what I might say to any co-worker who requested I turn down the volume. I thought an easy solution would be to listen to the classical music station on the radio- -except I forgot how unbearably annoying the DJ’s are, with their frequent and very sedated James Lipton-esque commentary. Then from time-to-time, as a glaringly paradoxical shift from the otherwise peaceful classical music, there is a news interruption that broadcasts the latest and most horrific war atrocities from the Middle East. The news reporter never fails to be British, and completely unaffected by the subject matter being reported on, no matter how awful. “Literally, infant limbs and entrails line the streets today in Baghdad as a bus carrying newborn children, puppies, and beloved Disney characters was destroyed by a…..” It’s ridiculous. So, needless to say, the classical music was promptly turned off, and now I’m just sitting at my desk like a psycho with very large, conspicuous headphones on that are plugged into nothing. It muffles the office sounds just enough to hear my own irrational thoughts clearly, although it makes everyone else sound like the voice the adults produce in the Charlie Brown cartoons; that sort of “womp womp womp.” It’s pretty glorious; I’m not going to lie. It could only be trumped by having a hyperbaric chamber in my cubicle. Man, where is one of those when you need it?
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