I got a new office on Friday. It has windows.
If the wise philosophies of such works as "The Secret of My Success" and "Nine to Five" are to be believed, I've just turned some sort of very important corner in my career. In fact, I'm thinking of decking the place out in all-black-laquer furnishings, a zebra-print rug, and some cheesy modern art.
Then I'll start wearing suspenders, smoking cigars, and offering people martinis when they walk in, just to complete the picture of the be-power-tied, 80s businessman. After all, I'm already conservative; might as well go all out.
Actually, this really just means I moved down the hall. But the fact remains that I have windows.
I came in early this morning. Turns out, my windows face east. I walked in to find my office bathed in red-orange light, slivers of it slanting through the partially opened vertical blinds.
Across the street, atop the scaffolding of a building in progress, the light gleams yellow on the hard hats of construction workers who still managed to start their day before I did.
Nextdoor, the orange light turns to melon against the greenish glass side of an office building likely constructed circa "Secret of My Success"-- a reminder that the building-to-come across the street will likely overtake my view of the Washington sunrise in two or three more stories. I'll be lucky to get a melon reflection of the real thing.
But while I've got it, isn't it great how a sunrise can make everything seem fresh again? Sure it's a cliche, but some things become cliches simply because they've been true for so long.
A sunrise is a promise, and if there's a place where people can use promise-- bright, orange, leaves-spots-when-you-close-your-eyes promise-- it's this town. Well, I needed it, anyway. And, I've got it-- for at least two more stories.
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