Why don't you like meeeeeee?
Why do I have this pathetic need to be liked by everyone? Treating every human being with respect is what I am striving for ... instead I am kowtowing to every Tom, Dick and Harry to make sure I am agreeable! Is this a female thing? Ugh. It's pathetic.
And you know what? It doesn't matter. It doesn't make any difference.
What the hell am I talking about, you are wondering? I am being deliberately vague because I promised my source I would not betray them, and because it is hearsay after all.
Whatever the source or the reason, last night, I came to the lightning-bolt realization that the people that work for me probably don't actually like me.
Here's what's really pathetic. I thought maybe they did.
In my mind, we are the best of friends. In my mind, they respect my open-mindedness, my interest in African history, my active social life and my unparalleled parenting skills. In my mind, they think I have terrific sense of humor for an oyibo. Because they laugh at all my jokes. I'm the best boss ever.
But in reality... they're probably down in their airless, windowless basement apartments telling the other drivers and stewards and nannies how annoying, haughty and arrogant I am. I am a woman after all. Is there anything worse than working for a woman?
I spent all day stewing about this. I made secret resolutions. I am going to be hard as flint. Tough as nails. Meaner than dirt. Cold as ice ... all those tough-guy metaphors. That'll be me. Starting today.
I will awe them with my commanding presence and my authoritative manner. They will tell everyone what a bad-ass I am.
"Yes, she's a woman," they'll say, "but she's a bad-ass. It all started on March 15."
Typical of most of my resolutions, I caved by the end of the day. It's just not me. I'm a softie. A secret bleeding heart. A little wiser, yes, but much happier keeping up the little facade of friendship than trying to punish those who may or may not like me.
Because I like meeeeeee, just the way I am. Gullible fool and all.
And you know what? It doesn't matter. It doesn't make any difference.
What the hell am I talking about, you are wondering? I am being deliberately vague because I promised my source I would not betray them, and because it is hearsay after all.
Whatever the source or the reason, last night, I came to the lightning-bolt realization that the people that work for me probably don't actually like me.
Here's what's really pathetic. I thought maybe they did.
In my mind, we are the best of friends. In my mind, they respect my open-mindedness, my interest in African history, my active social life and my unparalleled parenting skills. In my mind, they think I have terrific sense of humor for an oyibo. Because they laugh at all my jokes. I'm the best boss ever.
But in reality... they're probably down in their airless, windowless basement apartments telling the other drivers and stewards and nannies how annoying, haughty and arrogant I am. I am a woman after all. Is there anything worse than working for a woman?
I spent all day stewing about this. I made secret resolutions. I am going to be hard as flint. Tough as nails. Meaner than dirt. Cold as ice ... all those tough-guy metaphors. That'll be me. Starting today.
I will awe them with my commanding presence and my authoritative manner. They will tell everyone what a bad-ass I am.
"Yes, she's a woman," they'll say, "but she's a bad-ass. It all started on March 15."
Typical of most of my resolutions, I caved by the end of the day. It's just not me. I'm a softie. A secret bleeding heart. A little wiser, yes, but much happier keeping up the little facade of friendship than trying to punish those who may or may not like me.
Because I like meeeeeee, just the way I am. Gullible fool and all.
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