Sit and Spin

I have one of those fancy pants ergonomic office chairs that spins. I am currently sitting in it, and when my fingers aren't doing the talking I spin in it. I spin to look out the window, to see that the fog has progressed from the Sunset and Richmond and is oozing Eastward, preparing to startle the tourists in Union square by a sudden temperature drop of fifteen degrees.

I spin in my chair.
Because it is fun.
Because I can.

I had naively thought, when I took the vows of office life that a spinning chair was the pinnacle of achievement. After years of 10 hour shifts of standing on those wretched kitchen mats (ugh, the slime, the stench) slinging drinks, finishing coated in liquor and sweat. I thought when I saw my lovely chair, in compact and unmatted cubicle, that I would be glad to sit a spell, and not have to ask anyone to cover me when I needed a loo. And so, during the first several weeks I abused my bathroom privileges, often going for no reason at all but to sit leisurely on the toilet and gloat.

Yes, well times change.

I am sitting Indian style in my chair as I spin, and I have removed my shoes. I am also wearing a skirt. I am, according to the Massive Corporation in violation. My feet ought to be properly shod, I ought not to be in danger of flashing my knickers to a fellow employee, and I really ought not to be spinning in my chair. But I am a corporate rebel and I really don't give a fuck what I ought not to be doing. I ought not to have ever been impressed with a spinning chair.