Grass (conceptually) gets greener. Amen.

Let it be known that I am typing this while pretending to listen to the secretary recite a detailed chronological narrative of how she found her third cat and what her husband thinks of the cat. I assure you this is no easy feat, but she is convinced that I am listening, because I pretend-giggle at precisely the correct moments.

This month I celebrate my 1^st anniversary. Of starting what might be defined as “joining the labour market”. Of being fully employed, in other words. Of being paid a monthly salary, in even more words. A year that feels like ten, in summary.

By certain unorthodox standards, I believe I’m doing quite well. I haven’t gained weight. I haven’t developed an obsession for branded (or fake) monogram leather bags. I have traveled to Russia. I have learned to keep a straight face. I can now alternate between an American accent and a Javanese accent, depending on my audience. I haven’t (yet) faked a doctor’s appointment.

But to be sure it is an uglier world. A world of the ebb and tide of stacking papers, the rhythmic snapping of staples, the steady tapping of keyboards, and the chaotic cacophony of the secretary’s phone (and cat stories). My little corner in this world is a cluttered desk that is forever filled with unfinished business. My excitement over new business outfits and free stationery have long saturated. And then of course, there are the Unmentionables.

So the turmoil of the past year, at times a frenzied storm of deadlines, at times a dwindling breath of boredom, comes down to this: I want a new job.

Happy anniversary.