I forgot about the incessant boredom of over-preparedness. It is amazing the polarization of two tax offices less than twenty-five yards from one another. One job I am given to much work and responsibility, while I try to navigate the ship from certain destruction among the rocks. The other office, I am dutiful and mindful. I feel like a puritan woman in a church. Quiet. Organized. Well-kept. Sitting patiently. Waiting the time away.
If it were me. If I were “Id,” I would take a bucket of pink paint and a four-inch brush. I would dip the brush haphazardly into the sloppy pink, with bristles leading a path along the walls. I would start in the grey stairwell and paint my way up to the seventh floor. The bristles would gently graze along the hallway’s edge as it came to Suite 702. The brush would drip-drip on the floor as I fumble for my keys, my right-shoulder pushing open the heavy door. I would start at the front desk and I would just pour the pink over the desk riddled with pages, creating a puddle. Drip-drip. I would slash that blush brush onto that painting of San Diego and then create a path of pink along the floor and out the door. Dragging the brush, swish-swish past the Elevator Room to Suite 717. I don’t have a key to this office, so I paint the door instead. Up and down swish-swish, until the whole door is pink hot pink. I go back to the Elevator Room and float down down down and out that door.
But I am not all “Id.” So, instead I just take the brush to a section of my hair and leave everything else in that dull grey ocean.
