My work is gray, gray, gray. I’m surrounded by daunting, mountainous gray walls. I understand why the bigwigs wouldn’t want to put drywall up the sides of the gargantuan warehouse and across that expansive bleak ceiling, but it’s depressing to look at. The fluorescent lights don’t help. Have you seen Joe vs. the Volcano? I’m living those opening scenes. If you haven’t seen it, watch it. And not just because I want you to understand my reference — it’s a cute movie; Meg Ryan plays 3 different roles, That was Meg Ryan when she was still America’s sweetheart, before she rebelled and ran off with an Aussie. Another good girl gone bad. I mean, look at, Brittany Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Hugh Grant, Miley Cyrus . . . I mean, you’ve gotta live your life and find your own way, but I think it could be done a little less painfully. So, parents, remember, don’t make your daughter out to be your “little angel” unless you want your little hell’s angel flying careening into adulthood, if you know what I’m saying.
ANYWAY, so there is a rainbow in the darkness of the massive gray walls. Now that I think about it, maybe it’s good that the walls aren’t white: no Asian beetles. Those things love white walls, something to do with the white mountains of their native land, or so I’ve heard. And that warehouse is wide open when the UPS/FedEx trucks are docked. Can you imagine those walls covered in those orangey, putrid-smelling little bug balls? Yeck!
So, the color comes in the little things. Like my coworker’s hats. The guy who I’m now assisting always wears a hat. And the amazing part is that he’s always perfectly color-coordinated; for example, today he had on a purple Sox hat with a matching purple shirt. I asked him how many hats he has, and he flashed a beautiful smile and said he didn’t know. He said it’s his thing. And it is. And it’s wonderful — a little bit of color in a gray existence.
I have a little bit of my own color. I get to play music at work, and I finally brought in my iPod and got my “shuffle”d on. My music is as varied as my coworker’s hats, a little bit of everything: classical, country, musical theater, classic rock, hard rock, soft rock (Oxymoron?), New Age, angry girl, sobbing girl, R&B, jazz, soundtracks, even a smidge of rap and religious. I don’t like to define myself in one way, and it shows in my listening choices. You should experience riding in the car with me; I’m one of those people who changes the station every two minutes — not exaggerating — sometimes I change the station in the middle of the song I’m listening to. Now that I think about it, you really shouldn’t ride in the car with me.
That is the best part of my day: getting to play my music. Anyone listening can get to know me a little better without me even saying a word. But you have to get close enough to me to actually hear the music above the huge, whirring overhead fans and the drumming of all of the conveyor belts. I’m actually grateful for the noise because without it I hear the stereos of the book processors. The one closest to me blasts her Spanish radio station, and don’t get me wrong, I love Spanish radio (I speak Spanish!), but if I hear the “la la la”s of “Vivir Mi Vida” one more time, I may pick up one of the processor’s textbooks and start bashing my head with it.
So, I’m grateful for the bit of brightness amidst the gray, a little “la la la” for the blah, blah, blah.