They say that when you work with someone for over 20 years, you aren't just colleagues—you’re cellmates.
Cindy and I spent over two decades keeping each other sane in offices so small that we practically had to share a pulse. Some offices were so small that if one of us needed to use the copier, the other had to physically vacate the premises. It was intimate, it was cramped, and for Cindy—who moved exclusively in a gear somewhere between "Fourth" and "Overdrive"—it was probably a miracle she didn't leave a Cindy-shaped hole in the drywall.
Through those years, I got a front-row seat to her life. I was there for the milestones: Rob getting married, Michael writing a book. I was even there for everything else—like the time Kevin visited his mother while still in high school and decided the most appropriate "souvenir" to leave on my desk was a dead fly.
Cindy was the heartbeat of the agency . She was:
-Impatient: She didn't walk; she vectored.
-Quick-witted: You had to be fast to keep up, or you’d get left in the dust.
-Filterless: She openly admitted she had no regulator on her mouth. I always thought that one of her best characteristics
But as much as she was a force of nature, Cindy was also... well, vertically challenged.
Now, the agency had bought us these very nice, high-tech adjustable chairs. And because I am a dedicated friend, I decided to help Cindy with hers. Every so often, when she’d leave the room, I’d sneak over and raise her chair just a couple of inches.
She’d come back, sit down, and her legs would just be swinging in the breeze. I’d look her dead in the eye and convince her the "hydraulic system" must have a leak. She’d grumble, she’d mutter, she’d fight the chair. Then, after six months of making her taller, I decided to go the other way.
I started making her shorter.
The grumbling reached a fever pitch.
The jig was finally up the day she forgot something, pulled a U-turn, and caught me red-handed, mid-adjustment, sitting in her chair like a thief in the night.
I have never seen a human being levitate before.
She puffed up like a cat whose fur could cover four zip codes. She called me names that I’m pretty sure aren't allowed in a church. She promised me dire consequences and immediate retribution. And then... she collapsed. We both did. We laughed until we couldn't breathe. You would have thought alcohol was involved.
That was the magic of Cindy. She was a woman who lived at overdrive speed, who spoke her mind without a safety net, but who had the grace to laugh at herself.
She saw the humor in the mundane, the joy in the prank, and the love in the long years we spent together. Cindy, I promise to leave your chair alone from now on—but only because I know wherever you are, you’ve already found a higher gear and you're currently outrunning everyone else.
I’m going to miss you.
