I have experienced an interesting phenomenon this week.
My company has moved out of the building it has owned for more than 20 years and now occupies rented office space in a corporate park a few blocks away.
It's hard for me to write about this without, frankly, sending up flares and posting neon signs with arrows pointing down, saying "Janet works here."
So this post is going to get written, it will stay up for a bit, and then I probably will take it down.
Meantime, here is a little stream of consciousness about leaving a place that I have lived in for 20 years.
I was pregnant with three babies while we were in that building. I gave birth to my Z-man, divorced, dated, got engaged, miscarried, remarried, had my Roo-girl, went through hell, came out the other side, met the man of my dreams, married him and rode off into the sunset.
The old building was dingy. It was dirty, after 20-plus years of ink and newsprint. There were no windows.
The new building is new. It's fresh. There are windows that let in light, and our second-story view of the foliage makes it look like we are perched in a treehouse.
The old building was like a pair of old shoes. You know they are ugly and worn, but they are the ones you're used to and and they're comfortable and you know all the places where they're threadbare and can, therefore, work around them.
The new building is like a new pair of pretty heels. They're all shiny and sparkly. But after a few minutes in them, your feet hurt.
In my case, my feet don't touch the floor.
The desks are a little higher in the new place. And in order to be tall enough to place my hands comfortably on the computer keyboard, I have to pump my chair up so high that ... my feet dangle.
I feel like Edith Ann.
I feel like an Edith Ann who works in an insurance office.
Not a newspaper.
I'm sure with time, I will adjust. I know it's a better place for us to live and work.
It's just different.
And different can take a long time to get used to.