It pops into my head like a commercial break—one second I’m stapling invoices, the next I’m imagining the fluorescent-lit closet with a little window and my boss’s phone buzzing on the floor. Not because I want him harmed. Not even because I want revenge. I just want an hour where he can’t interrupt, critique, or schedule a “quick chat” about my email tone.
The thought is absurd and vivid: the click of the door, the tiny hum of that old light, him rifling through paper towels and post-it notes wondering what the hell happened to his calendar. For thirty minutes I imagine peace, my inbox untouched, my headphones actually staying on, no surprise meetings about synergy or vague “follow-ups.” It’s a private fantasy that ends with me handing him a granola bar and a smug, “You okay?” before he walks back out, none the wiser.
The Confession
We all have days where the petty brain writes a short screenplay. Mine just happens to involve office architecture. He’s not a terrible person. He’s just—how do I say this politely—an excellent interrupter. He has the superpower of walking by and turning my five-minute focused burst into a team-wide disaster. So my brain stages this tiny coup: close the door, flip the sign to “Do Not Disturb,” and let me finish my spreadsheet in blissful silence.
This is not a plan. It’s a rehearsal. I’ll never actually lock anyone in anything because I like my conscience and also because HR would have words. The fantasy is safe in my skull: pure theater. I imagine the closet like a tiny, unfair throne room where the boss slowly realizes his to-do list has turned into a mystery. I picture the ridiculous measures he’d take—shouting through the vents, trying to “negotiate” with me via post-it notes. The more ridiculous the scenario, the better. It’s like catharsis with a laugh track.
Reflection and Realization
Why does my brain play this game? Mostly it’s about control. Work is this weird ecosystem where you hand pieces of yourself over in tiny increments—your time, your weekend, your attention—and sometimes you want one hour back without a calendar invite attached. Imagining the closet is a silly, harmless way to reclaim that hour. It’s a thought experiment in boundaries: not rude, just imaginary. I get to feel powerful for a hot minute and then go on with my day.
There’s also this small, honest truth: offices are noisy, and noise chips away at patience. The fantasy is a pressure valve. I rehearse the moment where his interruptions stop long enough for me to remember what deep work feels like. And then I picture handing him a granola bar like some tiny peace offering—because I’m not a monster, I’m just human and tired and occasionally dramatic.
After the daydream ends, I always do the same thing: I smile, take a deep breath, and put headphones on for real. I might send a polite calendar block that says “Focus time” with a coffee cup emoji, or I might close my office door for thirty minutes and pretend the fluorescent light is a spotlight for my concentration. The fantasy was useful because it reminded me I can actually set a boundary without pulling a caper out of a sitcom.
So no, I didn’t lock anyone in. The closet remains full of paper towels and unopened printer cartridges. But the story lives on in my head, ready for next Tuesday when he inevitably pops by to ask whether I can “just make one tiny change.” I’ll smile, nod, and then—quietly, lovingly—close my door.
No responses yet