June 7, 2010

Mince Meet

From an unnamed production office for an undisclosed television show in an address-withheld building in LA where the elevators are shockingly slow...

Hey- Pretend it's Friday, OK?  And pretend that I wrote this then, and that I didn't forget to post for the second time in a week, and also that it's almost the weekend which is a super fun pretend for a Monday.

So "this morning" I realized that I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop with the follow-up-meeting-that-never-was with my two big bosses.  I had exhausted my supply of Rescue Remedy (which, incidentally, if anyone is in the market for a homeopathic anti-anxiety medicine that tastes deliciously like scotch, let me point you in the direction of dreams come true) and had reached the place where washing down hard core sedatives with a break room Diet Coke sounded reasonable.  Doubling over in fear, thinking I was being called to the chopping block every time my phone rang or a new e-mail came in was getting- go figure- hellishly exhausting.

Surprisingly though, no one had any Propofol just taking up space in their desk drawer, and I was struck with an incredible notion: I could call the meeting.  There the big boss was, just sitting in his office.  Here I was, just sitting in mine.  And here the power of movement was, at my full disposal to just walk on in there and say something like, "Hi, I thought I would follow up with you about our last meeting."  It was so simple!  It was so inspired!  It was so effing terrifying!

But with the wind of my office mates' breath saying, "Umm... Sure.  You could..." at my back, I walked around the corner and into the big boss' office and asked if he had a minute.  Here's the thing: He did.  So I sat down, and we chatted about what had happened since last we met, and then about some other general topics of conversation, and then we told each other to have a good weekend and I left.  It was totally painless, he was really helpful, and it gave me great closure.

But how could anything pleasant last forever?  How could anything pleasant last for longer than five minutes?  As quickly as I had felt relieved, I came to feel completely indignant.  What is the point of doing something vaguely adult and fairly mature if no one is going go blue in the face and nearly pass out praising and thanking you profusely?!  I mean, I took the initiative to have an actual conversation with my boss, and no one said, "You are so wonderful!" or "Thank you so much for being so great at communication and also for being so profoundly brave!"  Nothing.  As if I was just supposed to already be an adult just because I'm in my late twenties.  As though just being employed in a professional environment should make me professional.  I mean- If they all stop complimenting me for dressing myself and packing my own lunch every day next, we are going to have some serious problems.

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