The Most Dangerous Item On Your Desk: The Stapler

In what I like to refer to as those warm, fuzzy and innocent days of college (although at the time every vague AIM away message was fodder for us to analyze and dissect at Towers during dinner and the cause of what was then considered drama), I along with my friends often imagined that 30 was the time stamp that would proudly proclaim: I made it!   Making it consisted of dream career where we were in some management position with comfy office, dashing husband, adorable well-behaved children or Yorkie, well maintained spotless house, money in the bank, still-active social life and of course, rocking the bedroom with said dashing husband in well-maintained spotless house. Whether it was because we were products of suburbia whose only venture into the real world was the Bluff at Duquesne or because we grew up on reruns of 90210, this was what we dreamily envisioned 30.  Well, as the saying and popular movie goes-reality bites! 

I woke up alone-natch-in my bed in my not exactly spotless condo (apartment ok).  I had lovely happy birthday texts to read from my awesome friends and family.  Similarly I had many Facebook birthday posts to read as I thumbed through my phone while heating up the Keurig (shouldn't my husband bring coffee in bed to me on my 30th?). I took a half day and was looking forward to a mani with my mom. I got to work on time-maybe 5 minutes late.  Work. Office.  My office consisted of a cubicle behind other cubicles in a windowless room. Spacious yes. In a cubicle "has a lot of advantages" according to my then boss kind of way. Check my email. Check my call log.  70 calls. Not bad.  Not bad in that "the company makes sure you make a certain amount of calls each day and knows who they were to and how long they last" micromanaging big brother style of management. When did checking my call logs and arranging my cubicle toys (yes, we all have them) become normal? First work call of the day. My then-boss.  Yes, 30 is not as old as you are.  Yes, I will be fine.  Thanks, my skin does look pretty good for 30 I guess.  Yes, yours looks great too. Really? That will be fun for you this weekend.  Wait, I thought it was my birthday we were talking about? I started mmhhmming and scanned my desk.  Calendar, pens, candle (not lit), pictures, various accessories, stapler.  Wait. Stapler.  My mind drifted away as I scanned my call logs, mmhhmmed on the phone (headset-excuse me) and dreamed about being anywhere else.  How many more mmhhmms can I say before getting off the phone? Do I need to know that about your family? Really? I idly picked up the black stapler and start pressing it. Twirled around on my chair while almost being choked by the headset.  I flashback to movie scenes where other girls (excuse me women) are in similar situations and they always have a fun scene where they totally lose it on someone and go all out and then the scene fades back and they're smiling and nodding at their boss/annoying colleague/sales associate in store. I know why they're smiling.  The fantasy of doing something totally inappropriate, immoral, or perhaps illegal is enough to get them through that moment.  I calmly faked another call and hung up.  I put down the stapler. After all, stapling papers and call logs to someones head is only wrong if you actually do it. Daydreaming never hurt anyone.  Still...I moved the stapler far away from me that day. Just in case.