The Land of Milk and Money

There is no amount of free Costco snacks that could make this OK.  I never thought I'd say this but I don't care about dried blueberries, cashew almond trail mix, peanut butter stuffed pretzels, Nutella, organic breakfast bars, juice in glass bottles and Red Bull.   Don't get me wrong, I love free breakfast bars.  I've run 15k's just for the free breakfast bars at the end.  But a mountain of Sweet n' Salties does not make up for the fact that we are living in one of the most ideal climates in North America and spending over 80% of the daylight hours between Monday and Friday with our eyeballs glued to LCD screens.

I guess you could say that I'm still adjusting to office life.  

It's strange…. Throw me into any foreign isolated tribal community mud hut village, and I will change colors faster than a chameleon on a snake-skin rug and smile about it.  But stick me in a temperature-controlled, warmly-lit, high-ceilinged Silicon Valley office and suddenly I'm frantically searching for a brown paper bag to breath into. The 'Desk Job' has been so deeply stigmatized in my mind that I can't help but see every perk of my new job as tiny crumbs of organic breakfast bars desperately trying to fill the void in our stomachs where our souls have been sucked out by computers. 

We sit in lumbar-supported swivel desk chairs or bounce with good posture on colorful fitness balls behind computer monitors the size of window panes.  In between the clickity-click-click of our multi-tasking fingers on keyboards, we chat about the latest articles we've read on thenewyorker.com and crack racist jokes (not jokes about any particular race, literally jokes about racists).  Every day there is an Android v. iPhone debate at lunch which is generally at some trendy fast-casual health food restaurant.  On Friday, my ears perked up when I overheard someone mention Asian street food.  Finally!  I'd been dying for something cheap and greasy that I could eat standing up on the sidewalk.  I invited myself along but my enthusiasm curbed when we walked through glass doors into a wood-floored dining room and I saw the artsy backlit sign above the register: "Asian Street Food."  

The skinny girl ordered a huge rice bowl, took a few bites, declared it to be delicious, took a few more bites, then threw the rest away.   If I had a dime for every time I saw a perfectly edible piece of food in the trashcan, I could buy myself Starbucks on a daily basis (which is the equivalent of feeding a family of seven in many parts of the world).  If I had a penny for every time I heard a random person on the street use

 the words "market test", "angel investor", "online community", or "Is it native on the iPad?"  I could buy an iPad (without the plan).  If I had 1/3 of the cars my roommate has, I would have a really nice Mercedes motorcycle.  

I haven't figured out how to handle this lifestyle.  So I crouch behind the bushes with my anthropologist's notepad and observe this strange people.  How do they all have bodies of Nike Store mannequins when they spend all day emailing and sipping macchiatos?  Where are all the children and the elderly?  So much to learn...