Just like a cheetah in the wild, so is the pounce of CCL. Sneaky. Stealth. Completely undetectable. Unless she has a Diet Coke.
You see, despite her diabetic status, CCL has a fondness for candy and soda. (By candy, in particular I mean M&M's. I shall have to save the three-year-long M&M World trip planning saga for another time.) CCL also has a nervous habit of some kind--a twitch, really--that leads her to CONSTANTLY squeeze and release any soda can or water bottle she holds in her hand while she walks. Over and over and over she does this obnoxious noise. But I fear she's caught onto the fact that this is my warning sign she's approaching. It was so much easier when she sat completely across the floor from me. I had time and distance on my side--it was much too far for her to walk without doing the squeezing noise. Now that there is only one cubicle between us, I have a huge disadvantage in my ability to escape.
Previously effective tactics included staying low (so as to not be seen above the cubicle walls--it's one way she can track my whereabouts; being the tallest person in the office certainly has its disadvantages, this being one of them) while shuffling to another cubicle she wouldn't think to check, or to go randomly visit another coworker. And when I say shuffle, I do mean shuffle. CCL's keen hearing always detects my footsteps, honing her in on my positioning so she can adjust course and "just happen" to bump into me. So I sometimes kick off my shoes before trying to flee.
The most effective means to gain distance from the predator is to head straight for the men's room. However, recent stride pattern changes indicate that this won't be my safe refuge for much longer. CCL is evolving to where all indications point to the fact she will most likely be bounding through that solid wood door, continuing on in conversation. By conversation, I do mean complaining relentlessly for long periods of time, during which I simply have to do occasional nods and say things like "Oh.", "Interesting.", "Hmmm.", "How fun.", "That's too bad.", "Bad kitty." or "Really?". The trick is in knowing when to appropriately interject such statements--and which ones to use in the first place. Of particular challenge is the fact that I generally block out what she's saying and instead fill my head with visions of her cats baracading her house doors so she can't escape and make it into work. Sadly, on more than one occasion I have mis-spoken. Saying "bad kitty" when CCL is actually discussing her mother is a mistake from which it is hard to recover. I am only so skilled & admittedly, there have been times I have fallen short.
Another challenging aspect to this unintentional office-based game of hide-and-seek is that CCL is a circler. When she makes her first pass to evaluate her prey and said prey has escaped to the supply closet, behind a door or to another cubicle, it only leads to more intense surveying. Repeated attempts are made to catch the innocent prey at a moment of weakness. Watching this from across the floor is a particularly interesting spectator sport. Because I have a small mirror on my computer monitor that allows me to see when someone's behind me (I hate being surprised from behind; I tend to scream, swear and even start swinging fists), I know when CCL has made her first pass. A typical routine will go like this: I hear CCL get out of her chair and the sound of her polyester pant legs swishing together as she heads towards me. As she rounds the corner where my cube is, she lets out a sigh that would indicate to the casual observer that this one person singularly carries the weight of the world upon her shoulders. This sigh is done about six inches past the edge of the wall (I've considered putting a plaque there: "This is Where CCL Sighs") so as to make sure it reaches my ears. After glancing towards me with her head tilted (her usual walking stance), she continues on towards the ladies room. This is my lone chance to escape. If I do not take that opportunity, or immediately put up my "Do Not Disturb" signs that are on bright yellow paper so that she won't miss them, I then have to resign myself to my fate.
After a few minutes, she returns. By the time I hear the hydraulically-stalled ladies room door come to a close, it's too late. She has then reached the other edge of my cube, literally swinging around the corner and usually saying, "Is it five o'clock yet?" Other signature phrases include: "I'm ready to snap. Like a twig.", "Will you run me over?" (Oh evil temptress...), "Would you bail me out of jail if I take someone out?", "Do you think a judge would accept a plea of insanity if I kill ___ (typically her boss' name)?" and "Is it Friday yet?" (this is typically said on Monday, then continues each day until blessed Friday arrives). Any response to that which includes any type of similar complaint or a gripe to show she's not the only one with job stress is always met with, "Welcome to my world." And that only infuriates me to where I want to slap her. Hard. Anyway, after a long, drawn-out explanation of her latest stressor, which generally includes something to do with her cats' behavior the night before (this morning it was that cat A slapped cat B last night and they fought for five minutes until fat cat A finally tried to squeeze under the couch to escape cat B, at which point she bribed them each with cookies so that they'd calm down because she couldn't handle the stress of it all), and after appropriately (hopefully) placed attentive head nods and verbal affirmations, she eventually lets out another weight-of-the-world sigh, tilts her head, and heads around the corner towards her own desk. If, however, one says "Good luck." or "Have fun.", this is only invitation for CCL to come back for a second helping of attention. It is usually equivalent to, or even sometimes exceeds, the time spent on the first dose of drawn-out pain. This mistake is avoided at all cost.
If, however, I make my escape immediately after the first indication of her approach, it usually goes like this (I know, because I watch from a distance over the top of the cubes)-- She does her usual sigh, glancing in towards my desk, then does a double-take to see if I'm close by, as she continues on towards the ladies room. On her way back, she nonchalantely looks around the corner to see if I'm back at my desk. If I'm not, she goes to her own desk to collect her water bottle, crinkling it over and over as she goes to the kitchen (which is behind me). After an appropriate stalling period, she then returns to see if I'm back. If not, she then goes to her desk and waits about five minutes (or until she hears me sit down; stupid noisy chair anyway) before attempting another pounce.
Instead, if I make my escape post-initial sigh (i.e., after she sees I'm at my desk when she walks by), she does nothing nonchalantely on the way back to her desk. She does her full swing around the corner & then looks stunned and perplexed that her prey is not where she left it. Then, after a slightly angry look, she stomps off towards her cave. Tip-toeing back to my desk without my shoes on and slowly lowering myself back into my chair usually buys me an extra ten minutes before she makes her attempt again. Needless to say, if I'm having a day in which I realllllly don't want to have a CCL attack, I can be completely drained and totally unproductive by the time the day is over, because I've spent the entire time trying to avoid that which seems inevitable.
As you can see, the pounce of the CCL is quite a complex affair that requires a great deal of study before one enters her environment. Knowing shortcuts, hiding places and the habits of the CCL can only aid in making sure you make it out alive come five o'clock. Extreme caution must be exercised in approaching this situation if it is foreign to you.
