It's lonely at the top

I am an extrovert. Not a little, but a lot.

When the whole staff at Argus did Myers-Briggs personality tests, we used the test scores to line up by score on each of the test's four scales -- from most introverted to most extroverted, most thinking to most feeling, etc. Maybe it's not such a huge accomplishment when most of your colleagues are master's degreed librarians, but I was by far the most extroverted in the office.

That means I draw energy from people, I solve problems by talking to people, and my most comfortable state is with people.

This past month has had me scratching and clawing for human contact.
For the the past eight years I worked in a cubicle surrounded by people. Now I go to work all day in my own secluded office. I've been married for six years, and I've been going to sleep alone every night in NYC. In between, I've jumped at any social opportunities that have come up. Yesterday I was so excited when the owner at my fave Italian sandwich shop wanted to chitchat for 20 minutes about feeling the protection of your dead relatives.

Even the physical layout at work is isolating. We have three floors. I'm on the top floor, which is the CEO, some VPs, finance ... all the really rowdy departments.
Each morning when I come in, I share the elevator with other folks for most of the ride, but I'm usually the only one left by the time I get to our floor. But I'm not even on the actual floor, I'm on a balcony overlooking the floor, tucked behind some file cabinets, so even if someone else does get out with me, I probably lose them in the lobby.

Maybe that's part of why these super-long meetings we've been having every week haven't bothered me. I'm just so excited to come out of my cave and talk to people that a meeting sounds pretty good. (plus my coworkers are so smart and informed on what we're doing that the content is like a seminar in how things work and why)

I've had some truly funny moments realizing that I'm an executive now, and not just one of the minions.
Like I went to the mailroom to borrow pliers to fix my watch. A guy down there fixed my watch for me and we were just happily chatting away while he did it. Then he asked me where I worked, and I saw him sit up straighter and get quiet.
Even funnier was the guy who gave me the "how you doin'?" smile on the sidewalk -- then when he got in the elevator with me, I saw the sudden jolt on his face when I hit the button for the exec floor. I could imagine him telling some sports copy editor how he just tried to make a play for one of the suits upstairs.
So there's another reason I probably won't be getting a ton of invites for drinks with the gang after work. It's no fun to complain about work if someone up the food chain makes you feel like you've got to watch what you say.

This is all the prelude to how excited I am to go to Michigan, where I'll get to see friends, cohabitate with my husband again, not eat dinners alone and generally have more social input than responses to my blog.

Once we're both here and we've got a home, that'll go a long way toward meeting my need for connection.