I really should have written about my fragile hormonal state earlier when I was teetering on "clinically insane." For some reason, old, slow whimsical tunes listened to via YouTube at my desk (with headphones, mind you….obviously) have really helped to remedy my disdain for the entire world. Now I’m only your average, run-of-the-mill "bitchy." There is great comfort that comes with the power of being able to select your own songs, sans commercials and offensive station-genre-conforming deejays.
Let me paint a picture for you of my surroundings, and maybe you can formulate your own deductions about why I think my uterus and God have teamed up today to have a good chuckle at my expense. Don’t confuse these sentiments with self-pity, but rather recognize that there is a symphony of annoying being orchestrated around me- -and "self-pity" is the only sentiment that’s really unaccounted for here, as I sit overwhelmed with a whirlwind of hormone-induced psychological distress. It’s like a beautiful symbiotic dance between wanting to wave a white flag of surrender and peace offering, and wanting to detonate an atom bomb.
First of all, it should be noted that the kind people in our building thought that the regular 9-5 business day would be the best time to reconstruct our whole office. So, as I sit at my desk and focus with the greatest of dedication on not hating my job, I have 5-10 construction workers, electricians, handy men, and other random clowns hammering and all in the ceiling tiles and basically every time I look up, the office has given birth to more cubicles. Please, pray tell, where is the redeeming charm in this segment of my story. (I’m now listening to "Islands in the Stream" by Mr. Kenny Rogers and Ms. Dolly Parton, in case you were wondering. It’s not helping, also in case you were wondering.) Not that I think my uterus would react positively to anything right now, but on the assumption that I would be pleased to see a handsome construction worker right now…..yeah, none of them are cute. The tool belts and Old Spice aren’t doing anything.
Oh right, because you aren’t here and can’t see the "I bet you won’t do that" new décor in the office….it has been said (by another PMSing co-worker), that "the carpet is so hideously patterned" that it "makes her nauseous." I loathe her complaining…..but I’m inclined to agree. I imagine her PMS chronicles would be something of horror fiction novels. I employ a great deal of restraint and isolation to remove myself from the potential of making a spectacle or ruining the good nature of some of my co-workers- -so, I hope that with this effort, people are only fragmentally aware that I’m pre-menstrual (and are thus tacitly encouraged to let the proverbial sleeping dog lie). For what previously-mentioned- coworker reveals- -she must be experiencing crazy on an unprecedented level. (Ahh, good…..more hammering.)
I just got out of a meeting where it became quickly evident that I’m not alone in my PMSing. It’s like an epidemic spreading through the office, and even being so kind as to include a few of the males as well. Why is a corporate complain-a-thon always presented under the guise of a "meeting?" A legitimate meeting of the minds I can handle- -but a round-table discussion of gripes only perpetuates my own ill-feelings- -AND I don’t have Kenny Rogers to drown them out. I literally just lost an hour of my work day (and life) to discuss the office construction. Very little was mentioned of the disruption, but rather- -the entire focus was on the fact that the hideous carpets aren’t padded. At which time, individual carpet pads were requested for the comfort of certain people. Other certain people (who weren’t present at the meeting, but whose sentiments were assumed and represented by third party estrogen-laden succubuses), were displeased with the view their newly constructed offices offer. C’MON PEOPLE!!!!
Again, I’m terrified to answer the phone for fear of what words or tone may erupt from my mouth. I just returned a phone call to one of our Idaho brokers where I had to stop myself from inquiring, "Did you just wake up one day and decide to work in an insurance brokers’ office?"
I’m having a rough time with spell check right now. Even the subtle annoyance of having to backspace to correct my own spelling as I type is almost debilitating. Oh, I said it- -debilitating. I’m listening to David Gray, because if that doesn’t induce some sort of coma to dull the frustrated screaming in my head, I don’t know what will. Even Lionel Richie circa 1980 failed in this task.
Let me paint a picture for you of my surroundings, and maybe you can formulate your own deductions about why I think my uterus and God have teamed up today to have a good chuckle at my expense. Don’t confuse these sentiments with self-pity, but rather recognize that there is a symphony of annoying being orchestrated around me- -and "self-pity" is the only sentiment that’s really unaccounted for here, as I sit overwhelmed with a whirlwind of hormone-induced psychological distress. It’s like a beautiful symbiotic dance between wanting to wave a white flag of surrender and peace offering, and wanting to detonate an atom bomb.
First of all, it should be noted that the kind people in our building thought that the regular 9-5 business day would be the best time to reconstruct our whole office. So, as I sit at my desk and focus with the greatest of dedication on not hating my job, I have 5-10 construction workers, electricians, handy men, and other random clowns hammering and all in the ceiling tiles and basically every time I look up, the office has given birth to more cubicles. Please, pray tell, where is the redeeming charm in this segment of my story. (I’m now listening to "Islands in the Stream" by Mr. Kenny Rogers and Ms. Dolly Parton, in case you were wondering. It’s not helping, also in case you were wondering.) Not that I think my uterus would react positively to anything right now, but on the assumption that I would be pleased to see a handsome construction worker right now…..yeah, none of them are cute. The tool belts and Old Spice aren’t doing anything.
Oh right, because you aren’t here and can’t see the "I bet you won’t do that" new décor in the office….it has been said (by another PMSing co-worker), that "the carpet is so hideously patterned" that it "makes her nauseous." I loathe her complaining…..but I’m inclined to agree. I imagine her PMS chronicles would be something of horror fiction novels. I employ a great deal of restraint and isolation to remove myself from the potential of making a spectacle or ruining the good nature of some of my co-workers- -so, I hope that with this effort, people are only fragmentally aware that I’m pre-menstrual (and are thus tacitly encouraged to let the proverbial sleeping dog lie). For what previously-mentioned- coworker reveals- -she must be experiencing crazy on an unprecedented level. (Ahh, good…..more hammering.)
I just got out of a meeting where it became quickly evident that I’m not alone in my PMSing. It’s like an epidemic spreading through the office, and even being so kind as to include a few of the males as well. Why is a corporate complain-a-thon always presented under the guise of a "meeting?" A legitimate meeting of the minds I can handle- -but a round-table discussion of gripes only perpetuates my own ill-feelings- -AND I don’t have Kenny Rogers to drown them out. I literally just lost an hour of my work day (and life) to discuss the office construction. Very little was mentioned of the disruption, but rather- -the entire focus was on the fact that the hideous carpets aren’t padded. At which time, individual carpet pads were requested for the comfort of certain people. Other certain people (who weren’t present at the meeting, but whose sentiments were assumed and represented by third party estrogen-laden succubuses), were displeased with the view their newly constructed offices offer. C’MON PEOPLE!!!!
Again, I’m terrified to answer the phone for fear of what words or tone may erupt from my mouth. I just returned a phone call to one of our Idaho brokers where I had to stop myself from inquiring, "Did you just wake up one day and decide to work in an insurance brokers’ office?"
I’m having a rough time with spell check right now. Even the subtle annoyance of having to backspace to correct my own spelling as I type is almost debilitating. Oh, I said it- -debilitating. I’m listening to David Gray, because if that doesn’t induce some sort of coma to dull the frustrated screaming in my head, I don’t know what will. Even Lionel Richie circa 1980 failed in this task.
No comments:
Post a Comment