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Office noises fill the small building, machinery humming, printers printing, coworkers I’ve never shared more than pleasantries with laughing. People are getting their final coffees and heading home for the day.
I am going cross-eyed looking at a spreadsheet I’m making to assess and compare marketing budgets from this year and the past five years in order to identify places that need improvement going forward. It’s not exactly the way I wanted to do it, but my ideas on how the whole process could be better streamlined and not only save but also make thousands was vetoed.
I’m not upset.
Technically, thinking that much is also above my pay grade.
It’s a lot of numbers. A lot of equations. A lot of is pink too unprofessional or am I allowed to make the design appealing to me?
It’s my own fault for nodding and saying yes, yes, of course I can do that like I knew the first thing about organizing this seven hours ago. Spoiler alert: I did not.
Shoving this project into the cracks between all my other duties of maintaining my boss’s schedule, handling her appointments, playing gopher, ordering meals, and, and, and, it’s a miracle I know anything about it now. Sure, it was my idea. Or part of my idea. But we’ve been over that, and I’m not upset. My idea was probably stupid anyway.
Why do I do this to myself?
Rubbing one eye, I type in another row of numbers, double check them, and start on the next.
Why am I still here?
I’m on salary.
This is my time.
I need to feed Oxford.
I need to feed myself.
I’ve been working here long enough to know that finishing this job doesn’t mean returning to the tasks I signed up for—you know, the ones listed on my employee agreement. It means another meeting where another idea for success and growth will appear that adds fifteen more things to my plate.
Because I hold my plate up when everyone else goes quiet.
Because my boss smiling and praising my accomplishments makes it all worthwhile.
I’m cheap.
I’ll do just about anything for the price of one (1) compliment. One little line that proves you don’t hate me, and I wag my tail, dead set on making sure you never hate me. Because, if you do end up hating me someday, I will never recover from the emotional aftershocks.
I need to be so useful that hating me ruins you.
“Brit.” Exiting her elegant, glass office, my boss Racheal Watson smiles at me and pulls her purse onto her shoulder. “Don’t stay too late tonight, okay? I worry about you sometimes.”
My heart jumps at the notion of another human being caring about me, and I smile a little brighter. “I’m fine! I just want to finish this. It’s fun.”
Racheal lifts a perfectly-tweased blond brow. “Compiling data into a spreadsheet is fun?”
“Well, it’s nice when all the numbers do all the things I want them to, isn’t it?”
She hums, fixing her bangs. “If you say so, honey. I really appreciate all your hard work. I just want to make sure you’re also taking care of yourself, all right?”
Taking care of myself? What is that foreign concept?
“Of course!”
Lifting her wrist, she glances at her watch, purses her lips, and clicks her way over to my desk, which sits just outside her office door like a sentry. To get to the queen, peasants must go through me. “Actually, honey, I’ve been leaving first every day this week. I’m making an executive decision. You can finish this—” She taps a perfectly manicured nail against the top of my monitor. “—tomorrow. Head on home.”
“Oh, really, it’s no troub—”
“I know you’re capable of staying here all night doing this and seven hundred other things, but that doesn’t mean you should. Call a friend. Go out to dinner. Watch a movie. Do anything but this. Okay?”
