In an effort to make the most of our office space, my employer has decided to start putting two people in each cubicle. Anyone who has worked in a cubicle knows that these spaces are meant to hold one — and only one — person. The man who invented the cubicle did so with the purpose of giving employees a little privacy (I know because I read an article about him). Given the loss of privacy, I have started referring to our cubicle as a cell.

The one bright spot is that we were allowed to choose our cellmates. I chose a friend who sat in the cubicle next to mine, a person I already spent a lot of time talking to. So I moved all my things into our cell, and on Monday morning, we sat down to work.

About 10 a.m., my stomach started to growl as it does every day. I eat breakfast as soon as I roll out of bed in the morning, so by mid-morning I’ve usually churned through those calories and am hungry again. I grabbed a snack out of the mini refrigerator we have in our cube. At noon, I ate lunch. By 4 p.m., I was starving, so I leaned over to grab another snack from our fridge. And that is when my cellmate turned to me with a furrowed brow and asked, “How much food do you bring to work?”

I knew my appetite would find a way to embarass me. You see, I get hungry a lot. I never eat much at one sitting because I fill up quickly, but within two hours of any meal I’m hungry again. I have a fast metabolism.
When I had my own cube, I could eat my snacks in peace. No one had to know that I carted an assortment of fruits, yogurts, nuts, and muffins to work with me every day. But now my cellmate knows. She realizes that she’s living with a little squirrel of a girl who is constantly scrambling around gathering rations and then chowing down. Oh sure, I leave a nut or two buried in our mini fridge for a rainy day, but on most afternoons, you can find me in the cell crunching away on almonds or pretzels. I think my cellmate is about ready to dump me back into the woods where I belong.

A few days ago, I read an article about how the Catholic church might do away with limbo. For those who don’t know, limbo is where (the Catholic church says) babies go if they die before being baptized. The idea is that your baby can’t be with God unless you have him or her baptized. But apparently the Pope is reconsidering this policy given that babies can’t choose whether they get baptized. I told Greg about the article.

“So what will happen to the babies that die?” Greg asked.

“Well, apparently they’re going to say that the babies will rely on God’s grace for their fate,” I said. “So basically, God can send the babies to Heaven if he wants.”

Greg considered this for a moment.

“You know, I bet baby Heaven is just a big pair of breasts,” I said.

Greg gave a satisfied smile as he pictured baby Heaven.

“I guess man Heaven is also just a big pair of breasts,” I said.

“Yup,” Greg said.

For some reason I always assume people have a collective knowledge they gained during childhood. Most of us long ago learned about the chill that runs up the spine as we dash through a sprinkler. We know the smell of fresh-cut grass. We know the flutter that jumps through our hearts when we are sitting in a school classroom in October or November, staring out the window, and spy the first snowflake of the winter. I always thought certain experiences were common to every kid…

Today was a rare rainy day. Some of my co-workers pulled out their fall clothing. I complimented one of my co-workers on her cute jacket as we walked to the office library.

“Thanks,” she said. “But don’t get too close. It smells.”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“Apparently something happens to wool where it stinks when it gets wet,” she said.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Yeah, I remember my mittens always smelling so bad when I was a kid.”

I turned to see her smile of recognition, but instead I saw a pair of blank blue eyes. It was as though I hadn’t even talked. My mind fumbled. Then, it kickstarted itself.

“You’re from Texas, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “So I don’t have much experience with mittens.”

“When we were kids, we’d play in the snow and come inside with wet mittens,” I said. “If the mittens were wool, they would smell so bad, and then your hands would smell. It was terrible.”

I can’t believe there are millions of kids out there who have never had the experience of trying to tug off a scarf, a parka, long underwear, snow pants, and puffy snow boots so that they can race to the bathroom before their bladder explodes. That divine suffering is such a formative experience.

We’ll be putting our wool away tomorrow as it’s supposed to be 90 degrees, but the forecast in my hometown calls for snow. I wish I could see it.