Flies in my Chardonnay

Fully warning you that I'm gonna be spewing a lot of honesty on this post. I pride myself on integrity. I believe in finding and then living your own truth. My goal in life is to be authentic and to try to be deliberate in everything I do.

Unfortunately, my delivery could use a lighter touch. A few weeks ago, I was honest with a friend and she still has yet to talk to me because the way I say things can kind of come off as...harsh. Like a salt exfoliation over sunburned skin.

Ouch, right?

I'm working on it.

Probably next year.  I'm pretty booked the rest of this year.

Anyway...

I started a new job this week. It's gonna be training for the next month. The schedule is hard on me because I don't see Paul or my animals as much. The drive is harder on my poor body, seeing that it's Saturday and I'm bed-ridden because I could hardly stand this morning.  Actually, I don't really want to talk about it.

Let's talk about the thing that's making my eyelid twitch when I'm there. 

2 Things About The New Job That Irritate Me. 

1. The way other people dress.

I really shouldn't even give a fuck, but I do. It is a fuck that I cannot help but give.

People need to be taught what business casual actually means.  I saw things that shouldn't have been seen in a professional setting: flip flops, pajama bottoms, t-shirts, unkempt hair, VPL (visible panty lines), unshaved legs, ratty cardigans, tapered Mom jeans.

My inner Tim Gunn shuddered with revulsion every day.

I'm going to sound elitist, but whatever, IDGAF. Yeah, I'm a bit of fashionista. I love clothes. It helps me express shit. Fucking LOVE them to the point where I'd eat canned tuna all month just to buy a perfect sheath dress.

There is real power in dressing properly. You stand taller. You move differently. You carry yourself better. It behooves everyone to up their fashion game and actually try to look better, especially in a work environment.

Yeah, we're sitting down, but people have eyes. Everyone sees you coming and going. People notice you, and they form hard-to-change opinions. We, as humans, are a species of judgmental motherfuckers. Squirrels don't judge other squirrels on how poofy their tails are, but humans would.

Case in point, me.

I judge. I try not to. I always force myself to try and be empathetic, but that lizard brain of mine ain't no joke.

Here are all the things I wanted to say to all the people I saw this week, but wisely kept to myself.

• To the lady at the elevator. Your feet shouldn't be this naked. I can see your lack of basic hygiene based on the state of your toe nails. You needed a pedicure ten years ago.  Your heels have layers of crusty dead skin that would make the Grand Canyon jealous. 

• To the 6th floor girl with the side cubicle. You're not tricking us with the yoga bottom you're trying to pass off as pants. Those are not work pants. Your butt is outlined so inappropriately right now. No, it's not your imagination that people keep glancing at you. Everyone is trying not to stare. 

• To the other dude in the elevator holding a phone conference with New York. T-shirts are not appropriate business wear. If you look at the history of a T-shirt, it is actually classified under underwear. Yes. Underwear. 

• The lady who handed me a file. Yes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but guess what? I'm the one beholding you and you look awful. Wash your hair. A dab of concealer and some brow powder isn't too much to ask. Nobody over the age of sixteen can pull off the au natural look without makeup. The bare face does not look professional. I'm sorry, I know that sounds bitchy, I agree. It's sexist and unfair and things need to change, but c'mon, let's get real. This isn't the place to fix that. And the way we're going as a society isn't going to change that anytime soon. Let's just do our 9-5 and get the fuck home. 

• To a person I waited behind in the copier room. Oh. My. God. You're not wearing a bra. I can tell you're not wearing a bra because I wondered why you kept tugging your cardigan close, but then I realized what those two lumps in your stomach are and who you'd set free. ...  I get it, bras are boob prisons. But ohmigod, this is so risky. Executives from Fortune 500 companies come in here all the time and you might have to introduce yourself to like the CEO of Morgan Stanley or something and ohmigod, you're not wearing a bra. How are you not wearing a bra right now? Holy shit, I'm like horrified and it's not even me doing it!

2. The curiosity of strangers.

Ughhhhhh.

I'd rather have a Brazilian wax from an angry, burly Russian woman named Helga while on the rag than answer personal questions from strangers.

Yeah, wince.

I hate nosiness. I know it's because I'm the new girl and it'll go away in a few weeks, but I still hate it.

"Where are you from?"
"Are you married?"
"Do you have kids?"
"Where did you work before?"
"You're not from here, right? Oh, you are? Where?"
"How old are you?"

Fucking shoot me now. Seriously. Right now. I'll draw a bull's eye and everything, and the suicide note will blame you.

I mega loathe it when strangers want to know my business.

Most people don't realize I'm shy. Within the writing community, most people know me as my pseudonym. I've been told I'm bubbly and energetic and have a sunny disposition. A prime example of an extrovert.

 Snort* Hahahaha. No, I'm not. My smart introverted ass just learned to adapt to this extrovert-worship world. Because outside the writing world? Like the real world, with my real name? Yeah, I come off as a standoffish, ice-for-blood Bitch Queen when you meet me for the first time.

And that's on purpose, and no, I'm not about to change it. I'm the first to admit that I protect myself. If I could wear a barbwire scarf around my heart, I would. I'm wary of most people, especially non writers. I'm sensitive to vibes and follow them accordingly. Few are let into my inner circle so consider it a huge compliment if I approach you and introduce myself.

You can imagine how repellant I find personal questions. But, of course, I said all the polite, appropriate things. Tried to keep them one worded, if at all possible.

"I'm from here."
"Yes."
"No."
"I worked at (insert company name previously worked)."
"Yes, I'm from here. From so and so area."
"I'm old enough."

Wanna know what I really wanted to say? Aww, c'mon, admit it. You do. I've been told my honesty is funny.

Well, here you go:

Why do you even give a fuck if I'm married or have kids? Who the fuck cares? Can't we just work in silence and go home without killing each other? Do you really need any details about my life to help your productivity levels? Why do we have to waste energy going through this? Isn't it enough information to know what days I work and where my cubicle is?

I'm married. I don't have kids. No, you don't get to ask when that will change. 

Stop asking me how old I am. I'm younger than you. You can see that based on my skin's texture. Why does it matter how old I am? You're already judging me now. You think I don't know shit because I'm not your peer. 

Can I just give you a copy of my resume so you can stop asking about my previous job? Maybe then you'll realize that I'm much, much, MUCH more qualified than you think. Overqualified, actually. I've had twenty five years of school. Yes, twenty five. That's normal school, plus college, plus six years of grad school, and yeah, I'm thinking about adding more letters behind my name. No, I won't tell you this because you're going to say something that'll piss me off because you suddenly feel intimidated, and you need to soothe your ego. 

No, I don't want to bond with you through shared interest. I don't even want to tell you my interests. You can google me all you want, but nothing is going to show up because the real me? The one you so desperately keep trying to find out about? Her name isn't the one you know me by. 

I'm sure you're very nice, but it's not nice to ask me these questions the first five minutes I meet you. How about we respect each other's boundaries and over time, I'll disclose any personal info when I feel like it? When I've determined that I'm comfortable sharing a little bit more because you're not some backstabbing coworker who gossips, then yeah, maybe I will. But I don't think that's ever going to happen because your vibe makes me not like you. 


So...yeah...that's what went on inside my head.

Conceal, don't feel, am I right , Elsa? I concealed my honesty all week behind a polite, close-lipped smile.

One last thing.

I'm not nice. People need to stop saying that about me. (You know Parisians actually consider that an insult?) What I am is honest and real. That's my truth. I'm not nice. Nice gets you used in unspeakable ways.