Profile of a Crybaby

I love this blog and all the perks it comes with, such as ready access for me to talk about nonsense so as not to annoy nonconsensual listeners in other parts of my life, as well as linking up with all you lovelies out there who comment and email and invite me over to see your blogs, where we have virtual tea and crumpets and talk about what's new with you. There is one thing about my blog that I have always been dissatisfied with, and that is my Blogger Profile. The way they have it set up? Bo-ring. They give you a random question, which yeah, is kind of funny, I guess. Then they give you a section called "interests." And you just have to list things. This, for me, is excruciating. Why that is so, I'm not quite sure. I know this is how things are done in the social networking world. You go on match.com and you have to list your interests. You go on MySpace and you list interests. But what does that really do for you? What does it tell you about me to know that I like La Push beach and Brian Kinney? I guess it tells you something, but...ehh. It just doesn't do it for me. It's so lacking in description. There's no real voice that comes through. Which brings me to a Life Lesson that I want to tell you about. In my usual way, this Life Lesson will appear to have nothing to do with the fact that I hate my Blogger Profile, but to me it does, and in this here blog, if I say it relates, it relates! (Look at me going all authoritarian on you! Kind of sexy, yes?)

So, I once had this job that changed my life. After years of surviving on arty pursuits that didn't have things like health insurance or day time hours, I had landed myself a Real Job. I could go to the doctor if I needed to! I would arrive at work at 8am and leave in time for dinner! And the best part of this was that I was working for an organization that could not, in any way, be described as working for The Man. It was grassrootsy, it was progressive, it was changing the world! I was not a sell-out! I remember that I got the call to be hired on my birthday. I was so excited. No more wondering where the next paycheck would come from, no more moving around in order to find work. It was a good, good day in my life.

Fast forward two years. Me, a little older, a little less pep in my step. The Real Job? It was crap on a bun. I dragged myself to work, where I sat at my desk, feeling invisible for the first time in my life. Invisibility is something I had never had to deal with, ever. I've always had girlfriends who talk about going through phases in their adolescence where they felt invisible, and I had never understood that. Growing up in the Midwest, looking like I do, all islander brown goodness, I had never had the option of being invisible. People were always looking at me. I commanded attention, whether I wanted it or not. So, at this job, the force of invisibility was crushing. Issues would arise at work, I would communicate them to my peers and supervisors, and it would be as if I had never spoken. Everything I said and did passed by, unacknowledged. I would bring up concerns and potential solutions on a weekly basis, over and over again, and each time I did, I would be looked at like they had never heard any of it before. Nothing made a dent. It was as if I was encased in a sound-proof booth, like the ones they used to make Miss America contestants go into during the interview competition, where I would wave and yell and jump up and down, but no one could hear a word I was saying. It was discouraging, to say the least. It was like Kafka had taken over my life.

During this period, there were times that were so full of disillusionment that I would go into the bathroom at work, go into a stall, lock the door, and cry. This behavior is so ridiculously un-me I can't even tell you. Yet there I was, sobbing silent tears of frustration in the poo-poo closet, probably twice a week. I was miserable.

One morning, I drove Nordic Boy to work. After we pulled up to his building, there was something in my voice that gave him pause.

Him: Hey, everything ok?
Me: Yeah. I think so.
Him: What does that mean? You look really sad right now.
Me: I...just...don't want to go to work.
(tears start busting out of my eyeballs)
Him: Whoa! Hey. What's going on?
Me: I hate it there! I keep talking...no one listens...nothing changes...it's so messed up...and I have to...cry...in the bathrooooooom.
Him: What?? You cry in the bathroom? At work?
Me: Yes.
Him: On a regular basis??
Me: Yes.
Him: That is totally unacceptable! There will be no crying at work! If work is making you cry, and there's no way to make it better, you have to quit. You can go back to what you were doing before, until you find something else. You're not trapped. You're giving your notice. Today.
Me: (silence...silence) I can do that?
Him: Oh my god, you can totally do that.

The thing was, him saying that I should quit? It was a shock. Because even with the invisibility and the crying and the sound proof booth, I had somehow forgotten I could QUIT. I just up and FORGOT. I had gotten myself into a space where crying at work was just something I did. Just part of my day. Excuse me, everyone, it's 3:30, it's time for my crying break now. YIKES. I mean really, what kind of shit is that?

That day, I quit. And I went back to no health insurance land for a little bit. But I found something else to do, sooner than I thought possible. And I re-learned that Life Lesson: if you're hating something that bad, do all you can to change it.

So, I'm taking that god damn profile out of my sidebar. It doesn't make me cry at work or anything, but I do hate it. I'm making my own "about me" page. Check it out, it's right over there.

Take two things away from this post. One: if you've got an "about me" page in your blog, make it your own. Two: no crying at work.

I told you they were related.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl