It’s hard to concentrate when your editor in the cubicle next to you is having contractions. I mean, not to diss on pregnant people, because I think they’re heroic and strong and, well, larger than life, but it kind of stresses me out thinking I’m sitting a few feet away from someone whose water might imminently break.
Ok, that’s an exaggeration. She looks like she swallowed a beach ball, but I don’t think she’s due for another few weeks.
But, you know what, in spite of the fact that my boss is about to go into labor, the fact that the VP thinks I’m the Managing Editor but my e-mail signature says I’m the Assistant Editor—and not to gripe but I think there’s a difference—the fact that they don’t buy me dinner if I stay late and that I have to interact on a daily basis with a demoniacal tape recorder purchased circa 1972, not to mention the fact that I have to think all the time, which is something I’m unaccustomed to doing at work—I love my job.
Yes, there, I said it. I love my job. Demoniacal technology notwithstanding. Is that dorky? Am I a tool? I’m so used to reflexively hating it that I feel like I’m capitulating to The Man and his dehumanizing, mind-numbing corporate enslavement of human creativity if I dare to enjoy what I get paid to do. Is that a Gen X thing??
Anyhoo, I’m totally sure that I will be able run the magazine when my boss pops out the babe. But they’d better call me Managing Editor, dammit!
Although, I’m slightly worried by the fact that I get in early and stay late and bring work home. So far I haven’t allowed it to impinge upon my yoga time or TV time, but it is putting uncomfortable pressure on my doggy time and sleepy time, which I can see one day being me no happy time. Will I become one of those people who live to work? What the hell will I have to talk about if I’m not dissatisfied with my job? Or will I not care because I’m totally satisfied with what I’m doing with my life? Or will I always question whatever it is that I’m doing and thereby never achieve the peace of mind I so desperately seek?
Perhaps the latter. But nevermind that for now. I love my job! Neener, neener.
Ok, that’s an exaggeration. She looks like she swallowed a beach ball, but I don’t think she’s due for another few weeks.
But, you know what, in spite of the fact that my boss is about to go into labor, the fact that the VP thinks I’m the Managing Editor but my e-mail signature says I’m the Assistant Editor—and not to gripe but I think there’s a difference—the fact that they don’t buy me dinner if I stay late and that I have to interact on a daily basis with a demoniacal tape recorder purchased circa 1972, not to mention the fact that I have to think all the time, which is something I’m unaccustomed to doing at work—I love my job.
Yes, there, I said it. I love my job. Demoniacal technology notwithstanding. Is that dorky? Am I a tool? I’m so used to reflexively hating it that I feel like I’m capitulating to The Man and his dehumanizing, mind-numbing corporate enslavement of human creativity if I dare to enjoy what I get paid to do. Is that a Gen X thing??
Anyhoo, I’m totally sure that I will be able run the magazine when my boss pops out the babe. But they’d better call me Managing Editor, dammit!
Although, I’m slightly worried by the fact that I get in early and stay late and bring work home. So far I haven’t allowed it to impinge upon my yoga time or TV time, but it is putting uncomfortable pressure on my doggy time and sleepy time, which I can see one day being me no happy time. Will I become one of those people who live to work? What the hell will I have to talk about if I’m not dissatisfied with my job? Or will I not care because I’m totally satisfied with what I’m doing with my life? Or will I always question whatever it is that I’m doing and thereby never achieve the peace of mind I so desperately seek?
Perhaps the latter. But nevermind that for now. I love my job! Neener, neener.
posted by R. at jeudi, février 03, 2005
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