Moving

We're moving.

 

Now, wait. Before you pull out the Kleenex and start spontaneously planning expensive goodbye parties (I flatter myself), don't freak.

 

By "we" I mean, myself and my coworkers. By "move", I mean we're moving our office to a new facility.

 

It sounds much, much scarier than it actually is. We're even moving closer to my house, so I'll have less than three miles to drive to work. And I'll have more office space. And I'll have very classy desk. And I'll have a huge, huge piece of glass in front of me. I'll have my very own panic button in case anything is, uh, panicking me.

Can you say, "win/win"?

I can.

Win/Win.

See?

 

But. For all the many benefits of moving, the downside of moving is this little seven-letter word that strikes terror in even the bravest hearts.

Yes, my friends. You guessed it.

 P-A-C-K-I-N-G.

 

Today, we're packing.

Unlike moving, packing is a lot, lot scarier than it sounds. Putting things in boxes is a fairly benign part of the process—the challenge is in getting all three clerical women here to agree on how and when and what to pack. I decided to be industrious today, and packed two shelves—apparently the only two shelves in the whole world that Nancy wanted to remain unpacked.

"Simple miscommunication," she said, which was an understatement.

Whoops.

 

Right now, we're taking a little break, since everyone is a little frazzled. Who knew that packing up office supplies could get people frazzled?

 

So, in the meantime, Nancy is starting to survey the contents of her own desk and decide what needs to be kept and what needs to be chucked. The most unusual item so far has been a very, very large, hideous orange fanny-pack with wide straps and bulging contents. It's an emergency fanny pack, designed to sustain life for one week in case of a worldwide flood, nuclear warfare, or the second big bang.

 

It includes nutrition. Think: a brick of calories, supposed to resemble energy bars.

It includes water. Think: Seven little pouches about the size of a Capri-Sun. Who knows -- maybe people aren't as thirsty after a nuclear blast.

It includes a small vial. Nancy thinks it's for any necessary, uh," urine samples" during the world turmoil. I think it's probably to use in drinking those little gulps of water.  

 

Anyway. As hideous and as bulky as it is, none of us can think of a good reason to give it away—except, possibly, that the panic button is just as good in an emergency as any old fanny pack.

 

Do you guys think I might be onto something?