I’m often tempted to answer the phone at work that way. It’s not meant to be snarky, impish, or even funny. I simply just feel like an office drone answering the phones, pushing papers, and fulfilling ridiculous requests for office supplies.
How did I end up here, I often ask myself. After all, I studied to be a journalist. Much like Pam Beesley, I wanted to pursue a creative outlet in the professional world — she, an illustrator; I, a writer. The “real world” of a troubled economy and student debt did not exactly light the yellow brick road for me to follow toward a flourishing position at a magazine.
Then, on hot days when I relish air conditioned offices, I realize I can’t complain about my job. I have set hours, weekends off, am hardly on my feet, and don’t spend much time on the phone with outside callers. Things could be so much worse, although I can’t say washing coffee pots is one of my favorite chores. Oh, well. At least I don’t have an idiot boss named Michael Scott.