I have a thing for office supplies. Pens, highlighters and staplers put me in a mood that makes it nearly impossible to get work done.
I think it began during my years in Catholic school - a time when we were forced to wear dull uniforms and avoid physical expression. Our only hope of individuality was our choice of school supplies.
Instead of "Inspi(red)" T-shirts and Abercrombie jeans, we had neon-colored rulers and Elmer's sparkle glue. I scribbled love notes with my Yikes! pencil to the girl with the sexy Lion King lunch box.
Returning to school every fall meant reinventing my image. I'd linger for hours in the Target office supplies aisle, wondering, "Which brand of pencil sharpener did Greg recommend?" and "Would Ashley want to borrow this glue stick?"
(Ten years later I'm doing the same thing in the pharmacy aisle.)
I'd come home and unload the haul on my bed like it was Halloween candy. The smell of a freshly opened stack of wide-ruled paper was intoxicating to a kid who wore the same boring white polo and navy blue slacks every day.
By sixth grade, Uniball pens were popular - the guys appreciated the bold, phallic shape and the ladies the smooth, generous flow.
Naturally, our preferences developed along with our anatomies.
When I transferred to a public high school, most students preferred practicality to aesthetics when it came to school supplies, and fashion took over as the dominant social identifier.
I would hear from friends in Catholic high school that they identified "losers" as those who let their backpacks sag over their rear-ends. Apparently, it had some connection to prison gang-rape rituals.
But in public high school, a backpack was just a backpack. Instead, my "loser" status was revealed by my clean haircut and jean shorts. Meanwhile, the fetish remained - to me, few sounds were sexier than the snap of a three-ring-binder.
Since entering college, my tastes have matured. I no longer judge a woman by the color of her milk pen but by more reasonable factors such as hair scent and "bangability."
But it doesn't surprise me that I still fantasize about cluttered office desks and cramped storage rooms.
"Don't bother moving the manila folders," I whisper to Pam from "The Office" as we straddle the fax machine. "Your hair smells great, by the way."
I suppose I'll always have trouble saying "sticky notes" with a straight face.
