April 05, 2006

Confessions of a Prolific Profligate

Perhaps twenty years from now, as the pressures of mortgages, marriage, middle age, and mediocrity mount, I will look back upon the decisions I took in my early twenties with a mixture of regret and nostalgia, simultaneously pining for and revolting against the licentious lifestyle that came to embody my yuppie years. Certainly, the same cannot be said for the self-righteous hordes that look upon my actions with contempt and condemnation today, secure in their oft-preached, rarely practiced virtues of purity, security, and monogamy.

Perhaps the future for me holds nothing but repentance, but for the moment, there are no apologies, no remorse, no contrition. You see, dear reader, for my colleagues and I, philandering isn't so much an indulgence as it is a necessity, borne not of desire, but of decree.

It's not like I didn't know, either. I won't take shelter in ignorance, although I suppose I could. I knew very well even way back in Fall 2004, as a senior at Cal, that were I to join the questionable ranks of consultants near and far, workstation debauchery could hardly be far off. And I accepted that. So, I wouldn't have a cubicle to call my own; so, I wouldn't have a place to hang up all my demotivational posters and a risqué calendar of Jessica Alba; so, I'd have to carry my computer in my briefcase everywhere I went. Fine. Whatever. I'm young; I don't need stability. I don't need a demotivational poster. Stability is for old people! Demotivational posters are for people who can't find the misery in their own lives! I live for instability! I am my own demotivator! Why have only one, when you can have many, right? Right?

August 2005, it started: Los Angeles, CA; San Francisco, CA; Atlanta, GA; back to San Francisco; San Jose, CA; Santa Clara, CA; Longmont, CO; Mountain View, CA; Sunnyvale, CA; back to San Francisco; back to San Jose; Walnut Creek, CA; back to Los Angeles; Pleasanton, CA; Salt Lake City, UT . . . . Sometimes, if I was lucky, I would stick around for a week, but mostly, it was a couple days—often, just a one day stand. And through the travel, the airports, the traffic, the different cubicles and different seats and different trash can locations—through it all—I continued to tell myself that this was what I wanted. Why have only one, when you can have many?

And yet, even through the dozens of different workstations, some good, some bad, some horrible, I found myself growing attached. I found myself falling in love. Good ol' Hotel #17044.4 on the 17th floor in the San Francisco office. I found myself calling it my cube. I found myself reserving it online weeks in advance if I was planning to be in the SF office. I found myself getting insanely jealous if I were to arrive a few minutes late only to find it taken by someone else. How could they take my cube? It was mine!

You see, try as hard as we might, human beings are creatures of habit. And just as I had my seat in every lecture hall at Cal, I need a cubicle to call mine at my home office. That's not to say I am planning to stop my licentious ways (I couldn't even if I wanted to, and moreover, I don't want to); I'm not at the point of monogamy just yet—more like an open relationship. When I'm in town, I expect to sit at my cube. When I'm not, I don't care. I still might not be able to put up my risqué Jessica Alba calendar, but at least I'll have the comfort of having my trash can in the same place. Everyone wins.

The next question, which must be on the minds of all but the most intellectually challenged of individuals, is why an open relationship with one's workstation is completely acceptable—even recommended—while the same cannot be said about one's partner? Truly, a puzzle. I mean, you probably spend infinitely more time at your desk than you do with your partner, right? Anyone have an answer? Dare I ask for comments?