Coming to Wegman’s upper floor is great.
I get to work, watch people, quickly press random keys on my keyboard while trying to look like a “plugged in” Zuckployee as soon as they catch me staring at them… It’s really quite an efficient
waste of my time way to get work done without getting too terribly ADHD ejected outta my mind jet. I mean, as I literally just noted, the moment I get distracted enough to start eye-rape-eavesdropping on the convo happening between the two political office holders on the couch beside me who secretly meet here to crochet on Wednesday afternoons while carping about being closet queens (just come out and set an example already, coward), I’ll get rocket launched back into work mode with a single judgmental side gaze. (Side gaze is the worst. Just ask my first boyfriend, JT):
Between the Buzzstop (coffee shop), the furniture I’m not supposed to put my feet on but totes do, the free WiFi, and the free wafting scents floating up from the café below on a cloud of euphoria-sans-the-calories of foods I never make or eat myself (mostly ‘cause they’re never as good or satisfying as they smell), it’s a dream for the work-from-home professional. Or even the workaholic who just wants a change o’ scenery. When I can actually talk myself into packing up all my shit to actually come here and do work, my time here’s probably the most diligent I can humanly get.
But that’s just the problem.
The packing up of all your laptop crap, purse (because I’m a woman and I can’t travel without a canvas tote containing the raw goods that build my face daily), and also needing a free hand for the coffee you’re about to buy as soon as you arrive is bad enough. I mean, you get there, spend five minutes unpacking it, plugging it in, and drowning in cords while trying to decide where you’re gonna place your legs (it actually takes about 30 seconds tops, probz, but it feels like it’s five and that’s vexing enough to be complaint worthy in my book – which is now on sale in hardback at your local Barnes N’ Noble #WhiteGirlGrievances)
But that’s not the worst part.
I’m sitting here, finally just starting to get into my flow and…
Now I have to pee.
Ya know, this actually happened with some dude the other day, too.
He came over to my friend and I and asked, “Could you watch my stuff for a second?”
My friend said, “Sure!”.
I, of course (who couldn’t miss a cheeky-portunity), declared at decibel twelve-hundredy to his back that was now walking away, “We could be THIEVES! Don’t trust us!” He threw up both hands and shrugged without so much as turning around. While I didn’t steal his stuff (mostly because I was too comfortable and lazy to get up and abscond with it), I could’ve. A risk I’d also be taking, for instance, right now, if I asked those kindly flamboyant gentlemen beside me to stab someone with their arts and crafts tools should they try to take my Dell while I release the filtered remains of the poor man’s green tea latte I vacuumed into my esophagus an hour ago.
In the end, yes:
Like the queens’ needles, this entire 600ish word rant while I put off peeing has a point:
I feel like “laptop-watcher” should be an actual job position in cafes, Wegman’s upper floor, anywhere that has WiFi, and a few places that don’t. Like, they just stand in the corner wearing a butler costume – silent ‘n all, but situationally aware at all times. And they never stir until you summon them, whereupon they run to you promptly to hear you request a temporary technology babysitter while you use the loo. Tell me you wouldn’t love that?!
Maybe I should start a business of these folk.
And then pimp ‘em out to ‘bucks and the like.