The office I work for is moving into new digs this week. Because of an unfortunately heinous series of deadlines I had to meet, I wasn’t able to start packing until the last possible moment: I spent four hours sorting through files I rarely look through anymore and hunting down boxes for my stash of letterhead and highlighters.
When I move to a new home, I pause to acknowledge the place I’ve left behind, even if it was terrible and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Perhaps I put too much weight into this practice, but I was surprised that we didn’t stop for at least a moment to note the closing of this chapter in our work. The company has been located at that address for over a decade, I’ve been there for most of it, and we really grew and took off in that place. Granted, our new home is shiny and has nicely lit restrooms (thank goodness), but the old building — with its lethargic A/C and cruddy bathrooms — played a significant role in our history. Oh, the stories it could tell….
I was even more dismayed that there was no pizza to be found. Seriously. Packing for a move = pizza (and a six-pack of beer, but we’re talking work hours and all). Now, it’s possible that I’m cranky because I didn’t have time to eat lunch anyway, but that has no bearing on what I felt was a serious breach of moving protocol. There was also no loud rock music blasting through the halls, or wild expressions of glee as coworkers dropped scads of non-critical paperwork into the dumpster… all told, it was an oddly quiet, anticlimactic end to an era.
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