This morning, Sister #1 sent me pictures of Nieces #1-2 proudly displaying their ballet outfits. I blinked. Evidently, sometime in the last year, my nieces became old enough to walk through the young child’s rite of passage into ballet class. I showed the pictures to Freckles who, after seeing how adorable they were, as well as the Barbie dream house in the background, declared her jealousy. I asked her if she was jealous of a 4-year-old’s life and she said, “Life was a lot easier when I was 4. Although it is all relative, so it probably seemed tough at the time.”
I know that Sarah the L will agree with a shout out to rival any southern-Baptist “amen!” when I say that I’ve been working at my current job for far too long. For awhile, I rationalized my immobility with a number of valid-only-on-the-surface reasons (read: excuses) such as, but not limited to, my love for Vermont, the mostly-unheard-of comforts of a well-paying editorial job in Vermont, and my desire to accumulate valuable years of publishing/printing experience. In all honesty, like a man paralyzed by his metaphorical and/or literal cement feet in a zombie dream, I was too scared to move; afraid of the unknown world of lesser-paying jobs and the chance that this was as good as it could possibly get.
A few years ago, I read an interview of a co-writer for the TV show, The Simpsons. He talked about the sense of accomplishment he bathed in every day because of the commercial and creative success of the show. And he expressed aloud his bewilderment at the decisions of some of his former coworkers to leave the show for a better opportunity elsewhere. “Don’t they realize that it doesn’t get any better than this show?” he asked. Stupidly, when rationalizing my decision to stay at my job, I silently cited this writer when asking myself the blindly rhetorical question, “Don’t they realize this is a great Vermont job?” More coworkers than I can remember have come and gone since I began working in my department and only recently did I begin to think of their departures in a different light than that shown by the writer for The Simpsons. Only recently did I begin to consider that my position at this company, though a decent job for Vermont, was not worth the pain its mind-numbing work and soul-sucking executives inflicted upon me. This year, I began to come to terms with my fears and actively seek other employment. At this point in my search, I’m considering leaving the state, and/or applying to graduate schools. In the mean time, I’ve decided to stay at my current job.
Like the ghosts of this company’s past who were stuck with the company until their dreams of leaving it came to fruition, I have begun to question management (who, from now on shall be known as Darth Vader) with questions that ring in a lack-of-trust tone. Due to a great moment of idiocy on my part that can be blamed on my apathetic history with this company, Darth Vader’s overly defensive, bitter, pretentious, and passive-aggressive responses actually shocked me. But of course! While Vader’s answers were caked with professional-speak icing, the underlying tone screaming at me at the top of its lungs said, “Who the hell do you think you are and where the f#*k do you get off questioning anything I say?” Vader’s point that I shouldn’t dare question her authority, driven into my heart with a rusty spike, reminded Freckles of Madison and his belief that, if left unchecked, power bred corruptness. Showing my less-intelligent side, Vader’s response reminded me of high school.
While it could never be argued that Darth Vader ever resembled the popular Plastic Girls of high school (a phrase I coined in college, which was subsequently stolen by Tina Fey), her recent display of “I’m better than you” authority-flexing elitism did. This resemblance was so evident to me, in fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she convinced the Geek Squad (aka, the IT Department) that it was their privilege to do her work, or if she gave an employee a compliment, only to take it back two seconds later with a cruel, sarcastic rolling of the eyes. And while I could have a field day with comparisons between Vader and the people in high school I resented the most, my loyal (and starved) readers will not be surprised when I instead veer seemingly off subject for an unclear but good reason.
One of my coworkers showed up to work today with her face beaten into a pulp by, I’m suspecting, her “loving” husband of many years. I guessed spousal abuse because, according to what Veronica Japanica told me many years ago, this was not the first instance. While she smiles and stands proudly by her man who I’m guessing, in her abused mind, is the victim, I cannot help but notice the similarities between this coworker and Kara Beth Borden, the 14-year-old Pennsylvanian girl whose boyfriend murdered her parents. Both have been abused in some way, both are assuredly confused by the pain that has accompanied what they thought was love, and both continued to stand by those that hurt them out of fear and shame (though, in Borden’s case, it may have been involuntary).
These similarities, coupled with the resemblance between Darth Vader and the Plastic Girls, have got me wondering: aside from the obvious change in responsibilities, is there really that much of a difference between adolescence and adulthood? Or, as Freckles put it, is a 4-year-old’s life just as tough as an adult’s? Relatively speaking, in terms of emotions, is there any difference between how you felt when your fellow kindergartners kicked you out of their clique because your Dukes of Hazzard car wasn’t authentic, and the resentment employees feel as they do the Lay-Off March by the desks of those who survived the cuts? Maybe there is no difference save our abilities to express our emotions in ways other than crying in a corner; though, come to think of it, as an adult, I’ve done that, too. I submit that there is no real difference and maybe, in our rush to grow up, we overlooked that fact.
Benchly'sword 