The Shit Stick

Today has been a DAY, my people. Not the good kind. The first day back from vacation kind. The kind where you want to cry, bang your head against your desk, tell your coworkers to go f*** themselves, and quit. That kind of day.

I must be doing something wrong. Well, I am doing something wrong, in that I’m caring what other people think of me. I’ve heard it said that we shouldn’t care what people think of us, but I don’t quite understand that, to be honest. That’s one step above my enlightenment abilities. I need people to think well of me, don’t I? My boss, for instance? My clients? If they don’t, I can’t quite figure how I would be employed. Which, in spite of how I started this post, is somewhat necessary. I guess what I need to wrap my head around is that I don’t need people to like me. And that I don’t always have to do everything correctly, 100% correctly, all the time. Because that’s impossible, and will make you crazy. I try to sing that song, when I feel myself getting crazy: “You can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself.”

You really can’t please everyone. Everyone comes in with different wants, expectations, desired outcomes … and if you have a spine, or a pair, or whichever anatomical metaphor you prefer, you are going to make someone unhappy.

I guess what I’m trying to do is walk my way around this thought, the thought that “I don’t need to care what other people think of me.” What do people mean, when they say this? That you should be who you are, in spite of other people, their judgments, etc.? But don’t we have to conform, a little? I wear a suit when required, because people expect it. Of course, I’m also the kind of person who doesn’t mind wearing a suit — if I were, I’d need other employ. But certainly I think people should be who they are — I don’t want homosexuals, for instance, feeling like they have to be straight. That’s probably a bad example, but maybe you follow me a little.

But I do feel, all the time, like I’m supposed to be somebody else. Louder, more obnoxious, more unpleasant, more talkative … Generally (to be quite, quite honest) I feel like I should be a man. I haven’t figured out how to be a man, though, and I don’t actually mind being a woman — I just feel like I would be more successful and people would take me more seriously if I were taller, louder, with a deeper voice and a penis. And probably testicles. Although who’s going to check my pants, so, really.

I’m not really getting at the meat of my question, which was, how do you not care what other people think, but care enough to conform enough to be successful? All I know is, today, I was doing something wrong. I got handed the shitty end of the stick and I took it, and I don’t know why I did. I got mad at myself for taking it. I wanted to throw it against a wall and scream, “This is somebody else’s shit, not mine! And I’m not cleaning it up!” but I didn’t. Okay, I did, a little, but there’s no doubt in my mind that when I get in tomorrow, that shit will still be on my wall, and my boss will be in my office, pointing it out and telling me to clean up my shit.

That’s all, really. That’s all I’ve got. Someday I’ll learn to be a better person. But in the mean time, I’ve got shit to clean.

The Millstone

I’ve been trying to give up complaining for a while now. Man, is that ever hard. I never noticed how much of my day-to-day chit-chat at work centered around bitching, until I tried to stop doing it. I once had a friend who tried to give up swearing, and when I pointed out he had just said, “sh**,” responded, “Well, fu**.” It’s kind of like that.

I started my bitch-fast because I noticed how drained and unhappy the constant complaining made me. Or should I say, I had given up complaining — not intentionally, just as a byproduct of not having coworkers or bosses to complain about (unemployment did have its perks). I was happy, and grateful, for things like food and shelter and puppy dogs. But here I am, working full-time again, feeling like Bambi after his mother gets shot, wide-eyed and horrified by the never-ending stream of complaint coming from my coworkers.

It’s impossible to be happy and continually complain, I’ve decided. It just is. You can’t constantly be identifying everything wrong with everything in your life and then turn around and feel great about it. It just doesn’t happen. It doesn’t matter if nothing is wrong with your life. You just walk around feeling drained, and annoyed, and despairing. Or I do, at any rate. Somehow through my years of un- and under- employment I had rediscovered the inherent joy of not hating everything.

Of course there’s a villain in this story, the co-worker who can’t open her mouth without invective leaking out of it. I decided she wouldn’t be happy until I was dead and she was sucking the marrow from my bones. She wants everything from me, and she’s not content just to complain to me, at me, she wants my agreement, my complicity that everything is terrible, RIGHT?! Every time she says that word I picture it just like that, capital letters, question mark, exclamation point. I feel that exclamation point, right between my eyes.

Did I just complain about my co-worker? Well, fu**.