Demise
My job is killing me.
Like lead poisoning. (Well maybe. I don't actually know anything about lead poisoning, but if I did... then my it might be like that. Don't rule it out. You never know.)
I've worked as a secretary/receptionist since I was sixteen. I'm a secretary/receptionist now too. Which means I do all of the little, nit-picky things for people who are too important and too well educated and too skilled to do themselves. I make copies. I file charts. I water plants when Ph.D is at a conference in Germany, lecturing on Important Matters. I also smile and act sweet and eager even when Ph.D makes a request that is UNREASONABLY DEMANDING and THOUGHTLESS and completely INEFFICIENT. I endure exasperated sighs and constant condescension (and we're not talking the cool kind of condescension like you get with God).
I am a little worried that all of the niceness and docility that I have is being used up. By the time I'm thirty I will be what Calvin would call "a nasty, ol' barracuda."
But. My job pays me. And gives me benefits. And the economy stinks. And my marketable skills could probably be listed on the fingers of one hand. So I should be thankful. And I am. Sometimes. Except when I'm not. Right now I'm a little not.
However. I think I've found a few keys to surviving this secretarial life:
1. Remember that it's temporary. I will not be a secretary forever (read: not over 1-2 years)
2. It would be ten jagillion times worse to be unemployed
3. They sell amazing nectarines at the grocery store right next to where I work
and MOST IMPORTANTLY,
4. Finding ways to be creative during my spare time
My job saps me of my zest for life. It's like osteoporosis for my soul. Tonight I went to the Timpanogos Storytelling Festival with my good friend, Krista. It was AWESOME. She has a similar job. We were commiserating on our soul-osteoporosis jobs and in talking with her I realized that the only way to stay alive is to be creative. I have a bunch of tubes of paint and blank canvases. I haven't painted in years. I have a bunch of sheet music. I've played the piano twice in the last year. I like to write. But I never write regularly (and thus my writing skill is sliding down the idiomatic tube). I like to cook. I like to bake. I like to go to plays/concerts/whatevers. I like a lot of things. And there are things I want to learn. So I'd better start doing these things because the alternative is lead poisoning.
Like lead poisoning. (Well maybe. I don't actually know anything about lead poisoning, but if I did... then my it might be like that. Don't rule it out. You never know.)
I've worked as a secretary/receptionist since I was sixteen. I'm a secretary/receptionist now too. Which means I do all of the little, nit-picky things for people who are too important and too well educated and too skilled to do themselves. I make copies. I file charts. I water plants when Ph.D is at a conference in Germany, lecturing on Important Matters. I also smile and act sweet and eager even when Ph.D makes a request that is UNREASONABLY DEMANDING and THOUGHTLESS and completely INEFFICIENT. I endure exasperated sighs and constant condescension (and we're not talking the cool kind of condescension like you get with God).
I am a little worried that all of the niceness and docility that I have is being used up. By the time I'm thirty I will be what Calvin would call "a nasty, ol' barracuda."
But. My job pays me. And gives me benefits. And the economy stinks. And my marketable skills could probably be listed on the fingers of one hand. So I should be thankful. And I am. Sometimes. Except when I'm not. Right now I'm a little not.
However. I think I've found a few keys to surviving this secretarial life:
1. Remember that it's temporary. I will not be a secretary forever (read: not over 1-2 years)
2. It would be ten jagillion times worse to be unemployed
3. They sell amazing nectarines at the grocery store right next to where I work
and MOST IMPORTANTLY,
4. Finding ways to be creative during my spare time
My job saps me of my zest for life. It's like osteoporosis for my soul. Tonight I went to the Timpanogos Storytelling Festival with my good friend, Krista. It was AWESOME. She has a similar job. We were commiserating on our soul-osteoporosis jobs and in talking with her I realized that the only way to stay alive is to be creative. I have a bunch of tubes of paint and blank canvases. I haven't painted in years. I have a bunch of sheet music. I've played the piano twice in the last year. I like to write. But I never write regularly (and thus my writing skill is sliding down the idiomatic tube). I like to cook. I like to bake. I like to go to plays/concerts/whatevers. I like a lot of things. And there are things I want to learn. So I'd better start doing these things because the alternative is lead poisoning.
posted by Sylvia Louise at
9:22 PM
1 Comments:
Ugh. I totally understand how you feel. I taught one year and thought, "THIS IS CRAZY!" and then went back to doing a secretarial kind of job (medical billing)and thought, "THIS IS DEPRESSING!" So I went back to teaching.
You could be a crazy teacher, too, if you like.
Even though the economy sucks, there must be other jobs. And if you've been a secretary, your skills are innumerable. What about working as a secretary for a publishing company (and work your way up)? One of my friends became a secretary for the literary arts council in Oregon and was able to work up. I'm sure Utah has an LAC too, right?
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