Coming off a semi-crippling evening of Sunday night blues (dark, cold, inert—and the cable box died), I've arrived (hardly fresh-faced) at Monday only to remember just how much my job inspires the general gnashing of my teeth.
I'm not being dramatic here. I work for the kind of person who calls an employee as they're leaving for a long weekend to say (in no uncertain terms) that they have to "step up." It's enough of a party foul to pull that sort of trick on a Friday—period, but to wait until the girl is already rolling her suitcase to the train station? Cruel. I don't even particularly like this girl, but you have to stick up for your fellow human. Especially when that same boss chose to begin this week by gravely declaring her "disappointment" in the numbers and saying she'll need me to start "helping out" with membership and making phone calls in the evenings, effectively demoting me back to the sales pit from whence I came.
I call shenanigans. But before I start tearing my head by the hair follicles, I'm going to revisit this ideology. Leave for the boat trip, put my money on the cosmos and let 'er ride.
If the infrastructure of my life should happen to collapse while I'm away: if my job becomes a retrograde nightmare and/or the G.I.Q. rescinds his affections, I will take that as the final sign in the tea leaves to make a damn change already—even if that means I can no longer afford to live in my lovely turret apartment in Storybookland, Astoria. I will be brave. I've done it enough before to know myself capable, but don't you ever wish you could just stop being so frigging brave someday?
Either way, I'm going to need a new therapist. The very nice lesbian Buddhist in the cowboy boots just isn't cutting it with her "Well, why do you think that is?" and her "Well, of course [your utter incoherence in ranting yourself into ever-spiraling and irrational self-destruction] makes sense." This is a woman who lauded my decision to stay with Peter against all odds, whether he ever got a job or ever wanted to marry me or ever stopped drinking himself into a daily coma) then the very next week hurrahed me for having the courage to break up. The woman who listens to me talk like this without seeing little red flags popping across her field of vision. Who has the nads to call me a strong and upstanding woman in the face of my clear capacity to self-sabotage and second-guess.
I'm going to need a little more than carte blanche here, folks.
I'm not being dramatic here. I work for the kind of person who calls an employee as they're leaving for a long weekend to say (in no uncertain terms) that they have to "step up." It's enough of a party foul to pull that sort of trick on a Friday—period, but to wait until the girl is already rolling her suitcase to the train station? Cruel. I don't even particularly like this girl, but you have to stick up for your fellow human. Especially when that same boss chose to begin this week by gravely declaring her "disappointment" in the numbers and saying she'll need me to start "helping out" with membership and making phone calls in the evenings, effectively demoting me back to the sales pit from whence I came.
I call shenanigans. But before I start tearing my head by the hair follicles, I'm going to revisit this ideology. Leave for the boat trip, put my money on the cosmos and let 'er ride.
If the infrastructure of my life should happen to collapse while I'm away: if my job becomes a retrograde nightmare and/or the G.I.Q. rescinds his affections, I will take that as the final sign in the tea leaves to make a damn change already—even if that means I can no longer afford to live in my lovely turret apartment in Storybookland, Astoria. I will be brave. I've done it enough before to know myself capable, but don't you ever wish you could just stop being so frigging brave someday?
Either way, I'm going to need a new therapist. The very nice lesbian Buddhist in the cowboy boots just isn't cutting it with her "Well, why do you think that is?" and her "Well, of course [your utter incoherence in ranting yourself into ever-spiraling and irrational self-destruction] makes sense." This is a woman who lauded my decision to stay with Peter against all odds, whether he ever got a job or ever wanted to marry me or ever stopped drinking himself into a daily coma) then the very next week hurrahed me for having the courage to break up. The woman who listens to me talk like this without seeing little red flags popping across her field of vision. Who has the nads to call me a strong and upstanding woman in the face of my clear capacity to self-sabotage and second-guess.
I'm going to need a little more than carte blanche here, folks.
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2 comments:
Boat Trip!
Excellent blog. Dead-the-heck-on. I know, I know, about the weariness of being brave and getting the honor of patting yourself on the back yet again, though those repeated trials definitely make life easier in the long run... DITCH THE THERAPIST! That's precisely what I figured therapy would be like, some ineffectual hippie with no opinion (which kind of denotes to me no INTEREST or CONCERN about my life) validating my every thoughtless observation. It's nice at first when your previously unvoiced worries and ideas are heard and accepted and understood, when they haven't been, like the Maya Angelou quote about the hardest burden is the story untold or whatever, but it gets really old really fast. My therapist never did that, he validates what he agrees with, not even unless I sort of pose it as something I'm questioning, and he calls me on my BS, and he has opinions... Of course... I'm also madly in love with him and all that, but... I'm sure he does the same with everyone... so... they're out there!
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