Originally published on Thumpcity.com
You're Not the Boss of Me
Every day I become
more convinced of a few simple truths in life: comb-overs aren't fooling
anyone, families make you crazy, and work is junior high with paychecks. These
days at the office, I often have flashbacks to my 6th grade year when
Karlyn Burns (may she now burn you know where) bullied me mercilessly. We've
all had a Karlyn Burns. We've all experienced the pit-in-the-stomach
fear that plagues us in the anticipation of their unpredictable except
in its random nature, cruel behavior. Those incidents are not
unlike the emotions of being verbally skewered at a meeting or called
into a supervisor's office for an impromptu chat. If "Meet
me after school Walsh, you're dead meat" and "I think we
should talk" are universal codes for beatings and breakups, then "Do
you have a minute?" is office-speak to be wary of at all costs.
Tragically, most humanoids have apparently not
matured beyond age 12. If you think about it, the parallels between schoolyard
dynamics and office politics are seemingly endless. There are your CEO's
with God complexes - they were the kids who corralled the rest of us schmucks
onto a field for a romp of Red Rover as they proceeded to change the rules every
five minutes in a self-serving effort to not only win but to win and humiliate
the non-winners. CIO's were the annoying ones who knew every answer to
every question ever asked and go around spouting useless Jeopardy caliber trivia
just for fun. CFO's were the math whizzes who left us all in the chalk
dust but whose people skills definitely landed them in the minus column of life. You
know what they say about too many chiefs.
When examining hierarchical relationships we can't
omit the middle management types, or "Sheep" as I fondly refer to them. These
kids grew up and forgot that playing "Follow the Leader" was one of
those games better left behind. They also are particularly adept at riding
fences and are terrified (or incapable) of having or expressing their own opinions. These
characters are the most dangerous as they have knee-jerk back-stabbing reflexes
and will all inevitably snap under the constant pressure of sucking up to the
leaders.
And last, but certainly not least, were the fringe
kids who moved among us silently, facelessly. They pursued noble and obligatory
secret niches of the corporate food chain and fill office cleaning crew, security
guard and mail-room sorter slots. Occasionally, one of these folks will
break out to become computer engineers and IT automatons speaking foreign languages
peppered with acronyms that the rest of us poor slobs scramble around trying
to decode so we can just check our e-mail, fer chrissakes. What exactly
is a megabyte, anyway? And does anyone really care? Why don't they
go back to their daze of Dungeons and Dragons when at least some of their babble
showed glimmers of magic and imagination?
Did I leave anyone out? Nose-pickers, dreamers,
drama-queens, jocks, artsy wannabes... where are they now? In the cubicle
next to you, most likely.
Recently, I happened to be in my hometown and
inadvertently drove through a puddle drenching the poor unsuspecting mail carrier
who was trudging along the sidewalk. Dutifully delivering W-2's and Pottery
Barn catalogs, she turned and, to my added horror it was a girl I'd attended
K-6 with at the Margaret L. Donovan Elementary School. Abashedly apologetic,
I pulled over and casually chatted with her briefly, all the while scanning my
memory archives for any early indications that she was headed for a future with
the US postal service. I had a vague recollection of a friendly kid who
roamed from desk to desk sharing secrets and giggles. Perfect career choice
- minus the canine factor I suppose.
As so many of us drift from one job and relationship
to the next, perhaps it's comforting on some level that certain basic infrastructures
remain intact. You let your best pal cut in front of you in the lunch line
and you gossip over wilted salad with your closest office mates. Whether
it be sharing homework or covering a friend's butt at work on her many extended
coffee breaks, "I think she's in the bathroom," the "us against
them" mentality prevails. Teachers and parents are replaced by bosses
and their humorless, toady micro-managers as authority figures.
Rebellion abounds wherever people feel oppressed. It
might come in the classic whoopie-cushion-on-the-chair 5th grade prank, or as
a nasty interoffice e-mail sent to everyone except upper management. The
similarities extend to culture and climate ("who has a crush on who?" "who's
sleeping with who?"). Playground etiquette was all about waiting your
turn and disputes were settled with fisticuff scuffles broken up by benevolent
crossing guards, which translates today to the daily petty power struggles of "Who-left-the-dish-in-the-employee-lounge-sink?" What
is the solution to reversing the soul-killing effects of the skyward scratching
climb up the ladders of ambition and greed?
Start a club or a group with like-minded spirits
and instead of a mission statement a la Jerry McGuire - why not concoct a passion
statement? A mission statement, a term coined by America's backroom buzzword
gurus, is a boring and arbitrary list of philosophies and goals. We all
know the mission is to make more money no matter what. I believe we can
break out of these self-created ruts and aspire to create a community and workplaces
that reach beyond adolescent angst and get back to the business of being human. I
hear it's a real growth enterprise.