Julie’s been working from home since March. She’s often on the phone with clients. She does her share of video conferencing with workmates. Though I’m the most considerate person on earth, she felt she needed to let me know when I am not to enter her office.
Was I offended? My nose bent out of shape? Pish. Yet, I felt the need to also feel important. I posted my own notification.
That worked, so, as needed, up went this one.
Julie is not the only one with a home office. Or to be working.
I don’t mean to speak out of turn or inappropriately give insights into our marriage, but sometimes Julie can be a bit nosy. And not very forthcoming when I ask what was discussed on her calls or in her meetings.
My notes were proving successful . . . or, as Julie later insisted, she was so busy working that she’d not even seen any of my post-its. Yeah, right. Anyway, that was her excuse when I pointed out my fifth note . . . two days after I posted it.
You’re thinking the posting of that note was a physical, actual, logical impossibility? Apparently, you don’t know me very well. As long as you are suspending reality for my sake, check out how things grew worse.
She didn’t. I appealed to the one thing she knows about me that’s really important.
When you read the next one, you’ll wonder if I’d pounded on my door. (I hadn’t. I’m not an alarmist.) Or why didn’t I call her on my phone? (I had my phone. I didn’t think of it.) Or text her? (She long ago stopped responding to my texts.)
That one went up in the off chance she was actually reading my notes. A few minutes earlier, I was positive I heard tip-toeing in the hallway.
The day was growing long. It got dark outside.
And it was suppertime.
I finally reached my wit’s end. How did I come to this realization? My gurgling stomach told me.
I am pleased to report that I am finally safe, if not sound.
Julie hid the package of post-its.
And removed the lock from my door.
And is begging her boss to let her go back to the office.