The thing one forgets when one works from home for almost six years is that human beings are disgusting cesspools of germiness who will gleefully infect you with whatever nastiness is lurking in their sneeze factory. Okay, perhaps "gleefully" is not the correct term. Perhaps "unintentionally" is a better one. I find, as I recline in the bed contemplating the minutes until my next shot ... er, dose ... of liquid Mucinex that intent matters not a bit when you've contracted the Office Ebola.
And let me tell you, this particular version of the plague is nasty. Nasty and lingering. My department is a lovely cubicle farm, but a cubicle farm nonetheless -- an airy, open, and friendly one.
It's frigging germ Disneyworld, people. It's the happiest place on earth for a virus. We had guests in this week and I wanted to warn them to wear hazmat suits. I also wanted to apologize because it's only a matter of time before they start sniffling and coughing and then are down for the count.
Office Ebola. It's a thing. It's also turned everyone at my work into epidemiologists as we eyeball each other both blearily, through bloodshot, fevered eyes, and suspiciously as we try to determine which one of us is the asshole who brought this misery into our cubbies. We've had actual discussions about Patient Zero's identity. We've also debated the merits of Clorox vs Lysol for desk disinfecting, of how best to sanitize headsets and handsets, and gone through several hundred gallons of hand sanitizer. The office smells of alcohol, bleach, and desperation as those who've not yet contracted the foul funk try to avoid those of us who can't seem to shake it.
Because let me tell you, this is one of those bugs that WILL not go away. Even the people who are getting better? Still look exhausted and sniffly.
I don't really miss working at home. But I DO miss being exempt from the Office Ebola. Oh, how I miss that.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go slug back some Mucinex.