Office Lunch

In the process of unfolding the breast pump designed to look like a slightly bulky attaché, cords and dials popped from places that would make Maxwell Smart envious. “What is that thing?” asked yet another person bursting into my closed office, nearly tripping over Harvey, the huge pink bunny.

Previously, I had taken to placing large bits of furniture in front of my door before pumping, but I someone complained and security called it a fire hazard. Now I was reduced to bad clichés. Office locks and office furniture to keep visitors out were forbidden. Huge pink bunnies left over from the latest health care fair were not...at least not yet.

“It is a breast pump . . . for breastmilk.”

“Oh my God, you aren’t serious! Here at work?”

After the fourth or fifth such conversation, I wondered if the reaction would be as big if I called it part of an erectile dysfunction pump. What could I lose? I had already been called into my boss’s office twice to discuss my pumping problem. “Some people feel it isn’t decent,” she said.

“Personally I think it is great that you breastfeed, but maybe you could hide the bottles in the back of the fridge where no one has to look at them,” a female coworker told me one afternoon. “And maybe keep it separated from the rest of the actual food in there.”

“Hmm,” I said, as she deposited her lunch on the opposite pole of the fridge. I noted the bag. “Hey, didn’t Al’s close down last month for multiple health violations?”

“Oh yeah, but they must have fixed them, because it opened up again yesterday.” She shrugged. “They really have the best turkey salad.

“Personally, I don’t mind about the... uh stuff... being in there,” she whispered. “But I know some other people who are ‘concerned,’” she said.

God was I really being selfish? For a split second I wondered. Could my fresh breastmilk, packed with antibacterial properties, residing in nondescript little sterilized bottles, somehow contaminate the remains of the half-eaten McNuclear lunches and Kung Pao chicken stored by the more decent of the corporate citizens?

And then I came to my senses.

Back in my single days, I would return from lunch with a pint of premium ice cream to bank, in anticipation of injecting doses of sugar and carbs into my system somewhere around hour-ten of the workday. Inevitably in the office, there would be that mysterious spy-vs-spy character that would sneak in silently, slinking against the avocado eggshell walls of the kitchen area, to make a quick, creamy withdrawal.

I took to keeping the ice cream in its plain paper bag and labeling it with a sharpie. Writing “bait worms” and “yak’s cheese” on the bags worked for a few days, but before long, I had to switch to the more elaborate “pig’s feet” and “toe itch cream.” Eventually, the thief must figured it out.

But life has given me experience. Now I know that simply surrounding the treats with a circle of breastmilk bottles would effectively repel anyone. Three hundred years from now, a carton of freeze-dried peanut butter cookie dough will hold a special place in a museum of antiquities. The holographic placard on the ancient fridge will denote, without whole understanding, the societal implications of the corporate kitchen and the ritualistic significance of the ring of vintage breastmilk, perhaps used to ward off bad spirits.

I wonder what they will think of the pink bunny.