Working in an Office full of women is pure torture. Being a woman, you'd think I would relish in the female-power feeling surrounding me - a chance to bond on a level with my co-workers that I had not previously been able to do in an office devoid of vagina. But I hate it. Despise it. I miss my boys every day.
Around every corner is a new Pack of gossipers. Two to three women will group and talk in a low whisper, confused and upset looks on their faces. Every time someone comes into my office, or I enter theirs, there is a new story about another co-worker and her emotional breakdown, or about how much of a bitch someone is, or about who is angry with whom. They gather in packs, foaming at the mouth, eager to spread their info and judge every human being in this office who is not them.
You know it's bad when one person repeats a story, not remembering our prior chat. I have coined this one the gossip queen bee, buzzing with info to every worker bee who will listen. And believe me, they listen.
It's not to say my boys were devoid of gossip, but it wasn't harsh or cruel, didn't slam co-workers nor did it involve emotional trauma. We spread facts, discussed strategy against the corporate forces sent to destroy us, supported each other in time of strife, used it to figure out problems. And I felt accepted, like we were friends. Here, you are an outcast at all times, cliques staring you down, on edge, walking on eggshells.
But in the end, the greatest question that remains is what fantastical rumor should I start about myself?
Around every corner is a new Pack of gossipers. Two to three women will group and talk in a low whisper, confused and upset looks on their faces. Every time someone comes into my office, or I enter theirs, there is a new story about another co-worker and her emotional breakdown, or about how much of a bitch someone is, or about who is angry with whom. They gather in packs, foaming at the mouth, eager to spread their info and judge every human being in this office who is not them.
You know it's bad when one person repeats a story, not remembering our prior chat. I have coined this one the gossip queen bee, buzzing with info to every worker bee who will listen. And believe me, they listen.
It's not to say my boys were devoid of gossip, but it wasn't harsh or cruel, didn't slam co-workers nor did it involve emotional trauma. We spread facts, discussed strategy against the corporate forces sent to destroy us, supported each other in time of strife, used it to figure out problems. And I felt accepted, like we were friends. Here, you are an outcast at all times, cliques staring you down, on edge, walking on eggshells.
But in the end, the greatest question that remains is what fantastical rumor should I start about myself?
