Flood Watch
Let me tell you a sad story.
You might not see a more downtrodden group of individuals than advertising professionals arriving to work at 8am in a torrential downpour.
Think shivering wet puppy meets dreary windblown shack. It is the feeling of room temperature coffee. As the morning continues, the deluge lingers and the smaller the umbrella (or lack thereof) the more waterlogged the employee.
We're in the middle of a three days long thunderstorm. It's "flood season" as they call it here in Louisiana—when all the snowmelt and runoff from northern rivers snake their way to the Gulf, filling our canals, bayous, swamps, backwaters and byways to the brim.
The Mississippi River also happens to sit presently at a 100 year high; forcing the flood to bubble up on streets all over town.
Trapped inside our air-conditioned and bucolic solarium of an office, accounts and creative feel the fleeting nature of forecast meetings and whiteboard exercises.
The soak on our clothes makes our insides tremble, our throats squeeze up, our brand-name slim fit jeans drip down the hall. Hansel and Gretel couldn't leave a better trail if they tried.
"I can't work like this!" wails the sopping c-level executive. His title grants him permission to go home. The rest of us have to request it from HR.
Thunder ripples through the walls. Rain strikes my window at a heavy, steady rhythm. Sirens go screaming by outside. The storm has apparently claimed another victim.
It should come as no surprise that everything turned to muck.
Infrastructure is an abstraction in this part of the country. It's more of a word used in political speeches but not in political funding or legislation. The absence of it is largely to blame for my astronomically high insurance rates as well as the routine pileup of cars during their exodus to and from home.
But, I digress.
Blaring from our large screens, small screens and in-between screens comes the announcement: EMERGENCY FLOOD WARNING IN YOUR AREA. SEEK SHELTER.
So the city shuts down. The agency sends us home. Everyone scatters into the rushing traffic.
But the day is not over.
Rain, sleet, shine or snow advertising stops for nothing. The remote work begins.
And we are sad.
You might not see a more downtrodden group of individuals than advertising professionals arriving to work at 8am in a torrential downpour.
Think shivering wet puppy meets dreary windblown shack. It is the feeling of room temperature coffee. As the morning continues, the deluge lingers and the smaller the umbrella (or lack thereof) the more waterlogged the employee.
We're in the middle of a three days long thunderstorm. It's "flood season" as they call it here in Louisiana—when all the snowmelt and runoff from northern rivers snake their way to the Gulf, filling our canals, bayous, swamps, backwaters and byways to the brim.
The Mississippi River also happens to sit presently at a 100 year high; forcing the flood to bubble up on streets all over town.
Trapped inside our air-conditioned and bucolic solarium of an office, accounts and creative feel the fleeting nature of forecast meetings and whiteboard exercises.
The soak on our clothes makes our insides tremble, our throats squeeze up, our brand-name slim fit jeans drip down the hall. Hansel and Gretel couldn't leave a better trail if they tried.
"I can't work like this!" wails the sopping c-level executive. His title grants him permission to go home. The rest of us have to request it from HR.
Thunder ripples through the walls. Rain strikes my window at a heavy, steady rhythm. Sirens go screaming by outside. The storm has apparently claimed another victim.
It should come as no surprise that everything turned to muck.
Infrastructure is an abstraction in this part of the country. It's more of a word used in political speeches but not in political funding or legislation. The absence of it is largely to blame for my astronomically high insurance rates as well as the routine pileup of cars during their exodus to and from home.
But, I digress.
Blaring from our large screens, small screens and in-between screens comes the announcement: EMERGENCY FLOOD WARNING IN YOUR AREA. SEEK SHELTER.
So the city shuts down. The agency sends us home. Everyone scatters into the rushing traffic.
But the day is not over.
Rain, sleet, shine or snow advertising stops for nothing. The remote work begins.
And we are sad.
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