I hate working in confined spaces.
I look up in irritation. The knuckles on my mouse-hand have just brushed against a pile of paper on my desk. I push the paper away impatiently, muttering under my breath.
Who put it there, anyway?
Truly confined spaces like tight tunnels are out of the question, of course. I had to let the International Space Station folks down easy.
I clench my teeth in aggravation. This is my umpteenth flip through this pile of paper, looking for the one piece I need this time. With no horizontal space, I pile the rejects atop the printer as I go, and try to ignore the occasional sheet making an unauthorized break for the floor.
Why has no one better organized my office?
Even spaces that require me to restrain my natural gestures are not my happy place.
I frown in frustration. The cutting board is jammed against the roasting pan jammed against the knife block jammed into the counter’s corner, leaving me no room to change my angle of slightly-dull-carving-knife attack on this slightly undercooked turkey.
Who put all this stupid stuff on my counter?
My shoulders hunch, my breathing shallows, my patience dims (and it never glows what you’d call brightly).
I roll my eyes in exasperation. My quick elliptical beating with a fork is slopping egg onto the counter. Somehow the soup/cereal bowl that is perfect for breaking up two or three eggs is proving miserably inadequate for four.
Why didn’t someone give me a just-slightly bigger bowl to use?
In truth, my working conditions are entirely under my control. I can place piles of paper out of the way of my mouse-hand to avoid inadvertent contact. I can sort my piles of paper into folders to minimize searching time. I can think ahead all of 10 seconds to the inevitable next steps when I take a dagnabbed turkey out of the oven. I can choose the bowl in which I break up eggs based on the number of those eggs.
I hiss in annoyance. My shoulders are high and tight as I tentatively roll out the pie pastry. The counter’s backsplash won’t accommodate the sweeping stroke needed to obtain an even result with minimal handling: not working front to back, and not working sideways from the end of the kitchen island.
Why haven’t I learned to roll out pastry on the floor?
Oh, bother. Not *all* my working conditions are *entirely* under my control. All the more reason to do what I can, where I can, to avoid the botheration of confined spaces, saving that precious store of patience for when it’s really needed.