I work with five women. One is sharp witted old crone but I'll leave her out of it. The crone thing is part obligation, part artifice and I get the feeling she hides behind it because she may very well have things worth hiding. And I like her.
The other four, bless their hearts, are young and varying degrees of callow. Each of them is an administrative assistant. One of them is my administrative assistant; that is, if I can ever find her. She is usually off doing things for other staff despite being counselled about this (see crone above) but it isn’t that I mind terribly much. Not usually, at least.
What she writes is very good and very useful. What she says is another matter, mostly because it is in the realm of shit I don’t want to know about. It is also suffused with all the worldliness of a bright kid that has seen very little of anything off the ribbon that wends its way from work to the family home. The other three are the same and what provokes them is frighteningly ordinary and conflated and just a little cringeworthy. Perhaps I can even be grateful for been thrown into a wide-eyed wilderness when still a teenager. It spared me the drowning these kids do despite never getting wet.
No, not many problems are only problems.
So, the proto-feminist problem on an otherwise level-playing field is I’m the only other chick there. So I get to hear it and hear it and hear it all again, And I tell them. When it comes to their crises, real and imagined, they are weekend cyclists and I am a car door.
My friends count on this. Stangers and workmates (and fellow blogkeepers, for that matter) don’t need to be wandering aimlessly into the world of what I really think.
But if I may be so bold, if it is about a man, why not ask a different man. I don’t mean directly, because that would be futile. I mean indirectly. Carefully. Purposefully. Men, bless this gorgeous species, are at their giving best when they think the drawbridge is up. Ask one properly and they will never remember the question.
It’s not even science.
Speaking of men, my own is now home. Flew in on Sunday quite a bit worse for wear and its odd how he can look five years older and ten years younger all in the same glance.
All he has really done since is sleep. And sleep. I don’t mind. He can sleep until Christmas if that’s what he needs. But if he wants to be the lion of the house, he can wake up and have sex, then go back to sleep.