Three weeks later, standing at the copy machine at work, I type my commands onto the screen.
I wish this had a built-in stylus so I could actually type on this damn thing. Why isn’t this a feature yet? I can’t be the only one that has long nails and clumsy fingers around here.
I decide right then and there that I’m going to mention this idea to my boss. Closing the lid of the machine, I walk over to his office and tap lightly on his office door. “Come in,” he calls through the door.
Entering his office he seems surprised to see me. “Hi, Barry.”
“Hey, Jess! What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I had a design idea for the machines that we sell. I thought maybe you could run it by the manufacturer.”
He gives me a look that I can’t quite place and for a second, I consider not saying anything.
“What’s that?” He asks.
“What if, the machines came with a built-in stylus?” I stop to study his expression for approval but he seems confused by the idea.
“I just don’t see the point of it.” He explains gently.
“Yeah, it’s probably a woman thing,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. Get your head back in the game and out of the clouds, Jessi. Your job isn’t to design the machines. It’s to sell them. Know your role.
Tucking my tail between my legs, I give him a little wave and I go take my place, back at my crusty cubicle.
A year and a half later, a new machine model rolls in with a built-in stylus, just as I’d suggested.
Well, I’ll be damned. Would you look at that? Guess it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Glancing at the clock on my desk, I realize I need to leave right now for my meeting with Paul. I speed the whole way there and barely make it on time. Five minutes into the meeting, I’m rambling off one of my ideas.
He starts laughing with appreciation.
“You know, you’re one of those people that are going to end up on Shark Tank one day.”
“What’s Shark Tank?”
He laughs again at my ignorance.
“It’s a show for inventors and entrepreneurs. They present their idea to a few investors to launch their idea to the next level.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t see myself in that role at all.”
“Well, maybe you should start,” he suggests. For a moment, I wonder what it’s like to see me in the way that he does.
“I’m just a chick that likes to sell things for sport. I’m not inventive exactly. Maybe creative on a really good day.”
I can tell by his face that he disagrees, but he doesn’t argue with me. When I get back to the office, I reluctantly open my laptop. It hums to life, just like it has hundreds of times before. The urge to walk out of here and never return, is pretty strong.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I tell myself staring at the picture in front of me, taped to the desk. It’s a picture of a home on the water. It’s my motivational tool. It reminds me why I’m still here and why I even bother to put on pants.
Some days it works and some days I simply can’t give a single fuck. Today is one of those days where I’m finding it exceptionally hard to give a fuck.
Tapping my fingers on my desk, I can feel it creeping in. The sense of restlessness.
It’s my perpetual state of boredom and it’s knocking at my door again, threatening to turn my life upside down just to satisfy it.
I know me. I know it. I also know it’s only a matter of time before I’ll give in to it.