What Am I Even Doing Here?

I dreamt last night that I'd changed jobs.

I went to work for some pretentious architectural firm downtown; not in a production capacity, but rather as their (only) network and computer support person.

And when I say pretentious, I mean pretentious: Cavernous rooms ala Dennis Villeneuve DUNE, replete with stone walls and minimal outside light, except for the conference rooms and executive offices that were on the outer perimeter of the building.

For some reason I arrived carrying only a pair of ironing boards, which I was directed to store under the owner's desk. "Under his desk?" I asked. "Yes, just put all your stuff under there for storage."

And it only got weirder from that point on. No one really introduced themselves, and I knew only a couple of people from my initial interview who seemed uninterested in helping me get settled. While I was hired for computer support, as I walked around the office, what struck me was that there were no computers—or for that matter, drafting desks—anywhere. I finally decided to just find a place to sit down and wait until someone came for me and direct me to my desk. Then I realized I'd left my backpack and laptop at home, so I couldn't even log on the company's internet.

That wouldn't have mattered, because as the morning drew on (for some reason it felt like it was only 8 am) every conference room and every available chair was filled with someone busy doing something.

I finally cornered someone (portrayed by Quinta Brunson from Abbot Elementary—albeit with bright, hot pink hair) who reluctantly showed me around the office and the immeidate neighborhood. Ooh! There was a Starbucks on the opposite side of the block the office occupied. Noted. Also some kind of bakery/pastry shop. Also noted. I lost her as we were walking back to the office, and as I made my way back inside I kept thinking, "Why am I even here? I'm retiring in 9 months!" Thankfully I was rescued from this frustrating nightmare by my alarm going off…