soapboxdiner

The Cinderella Complex

You know what does it for me more than just about anything in the world, babies? The thing that puts the curl in my tootsies and the quiver in my lower lip? Do you, by any chance at all, know what sparks the glimmer in mine eyes?

No? Well by all means, allow me to illuminate that which makes all in my world bright. It's a simple thing, really. Not something grand or regal. Not something large or magnificent and impressive in dimension or stature. But what it is, is pervasive; and that in itself is a marvel to behold.

Yes, gentle reader. We are lauding... the double standard.

It's hard to imagine that such a thing can be so entirely provocative - of laughter at its audacity, of impatience at its gauche factor, of anger, of ambivalence, of resignation, of outrage, of combativeness and defensiveness.

Which luckily in the case of myself are all my best features.

You see, my dears, the boss, she likes the office to be quiet. It says so all over with pretty little 8.5 x 11 laminated neon signs stated "Quite. Work area".

(p.s. That wasn't a typo, either)

This being the case, I'm sure you can imagine how naturally one would assume that as a general rule, congregations of chattering little persons would be discouraged in the office - such as in the case of myself. And rightly by all accordance to the signs, one should expect a good shooshing - "Don't invite conversation, dear SBD, your busy body coworker cannot hear her dictation. Yes, she has volume control on her transcriber but that simply isn't the point, dear."

And so, SBD sits dejectedly at her desk, day in and day out, with nary a soul to commiserate with over the tribulations and trials of her daily toils.

Enter the double standard. As our heroine is seated within her cubicle, tippity tapping her life away one 75 word a minute transcript at a time, she notices in the periphery Busy Body coworker practicing her golf swing with her buddy - the Doc. And so, in the midst of many an abounding guffaw, the previous recipient of the adamantine shoosh swiveled in her chair. Tumbleweeds rolled past her still, sandaled feet to further define the silence of her keyboard. She fixed her lift-browed eye upon the BBC, mutely posing the question, "Can you not read the sign Quite. Work Area.?" Is it not by your own persistent plaintive mewlings that this commandment has come down?

Or more simply - Alrighty there, Mrs. Shut Your Trap and Work For Your Crust of Bread, it is only more than apparent that you feel above such micro managings of your time. Be aware that such has been duly noted and you will be warmly invited to kiss my mushy round ass the next time you tell me that my "Hi there and good morning!" to my friends disturbs you.

And I return to my monitor and address a personal email to a friend. Through the din of raucous golf club banter, I hear our supervisor addressing me, "SBD, are you on break? Let's make it your personal goal to finish the rest of the typing within the next 45 minutes."

At this I rise up! I can take no more of this playing of favorites! I will make my displeasure known and right all the wrongs in this place! I am Norma Rae! I will see you quake at my feet!

And I tell the boss I have 5 minutes left on my break. I'm getting a water.

On the way to the fountain, I see The Girl. She tells me she's been very busy but that she is taking a break from her social life for the next few days. Saturday she is going to the Butchs' Ball. She then informs me, with or without determining my need for such assistance, that the Butch's Ball is a social t�te-�-t�te for lesbians who like to poke fun at those among their ranks who limit themselves to what's within the narrow confines of that box of social distinction.

Uh, great. Have a great time. But I'm on minute 14, second 30 of my 15 minute break and if I don't get my water and return to work, I may face flogging by way of golf club. I'll see you lata.

10:51 pm - 08.27.03
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