Real Life Rookie Year: She all on me, I think she want me

Props to lyrical genius T-Pain who gave us today’s title. I love me some T-Pain, and not because his songs speak to my soul, but because they transport me to college days and my work husband Mr. President. Whitest guy ever, yet somehow every time I hear T’s scratchy voice I think of all our good times. Love you, Pres. Anywho. Last week I hinted something about mean girls and expensive breasts, and I don’t want to disappoint. I may even tie in the lyrics. So here we go.

Since I began working for my wonderful employer, I’ve worked in a total of 3 different offices and cities. It’s not as cool as it sounds, but it is pretty cool, and therefore I am kind of cool. Among the many benefits is that I get to meet so many different people from so many different walks of life. But it seems that people from small southern towns, large northeastern metropolises (metropoli?), and those who hail from swanky northern California wine villages all have things in common. Not only are we all Americans, thriving participants of a great capitalist society, finicky voters, and struggling to pay rent and/or mortgages, we all have a little green giant inside us named Envy. Please note that I’m using “we” to include myself and all Rookies in this. Everyone has a jealous streak. Stop arguing.

When I first started working, I was so excited / trying to stay excited about working. The paycheck is awesome, the clothes are uncomfortable but it’s fun to try to be as fashionable as possible and wear cute shoes and do my hur. I looked forward to giving and receiving compliments daily, and commiserating with my fellow lady associates about bad hair days, uncomfortable but way cute skirts and shoes, and in general the camaraderie that comes with being a professional woman (read my girl-power rant here). I think perhaps we know where this is going. Women are not as friendly as I thought, and in fact a majority of them are major haters. Though I have to say, this doesn’t prevent friendly little lunches or shrill-voiced compliments as we pass each other in the hallway. It is surprising how friendly and honest a compliment or comment can sound at first. And it’s also surprising that I am even surprised at the sting which follows.

My favorite is the comment that’s not really a compliment but not actually an insult either, and usually goes something like this: “Ohhh look at those shoes!” Said with something that looks suspiciously like a sneer, this one really bites. Because what can you respond? Thank you? She didn’t actually say anything worthy of a thank you. If anything it was more of a command to whomever might be standing nearby. Perhaps they’re hideous (not likely if they’re on my feet) or perhaps she’s just so shocked by the beauty and perfection she can’t put a decent sentence together (definitely likely if they’re on my feet). Any way you look at it, it’s awkward.

My favorite happening is when I get looked over with a look that is definitely a sneer, and then get zero comments. I don’t require a compliment at any time. I know I look good, or I know I look trife, but regardless I don’t need ego boosts (though they are the warm fuzzies which sustain us). But I also don’t need rudeness. All of this trifeness comes down to jealousy. We are young. We have clear skin which is gloriously wrinkle free. We are single. We are child-less and stress-free. We go on dates. We catch your husband’s eye. We wear ridiculously good looking shoes. We haven’t let ourselves go. We are just awesome. High five to us.

You, on the other hand, are not young or single or child-less or stress-free. But listen here, ladies. Don’t be trife and stop hatin on us. We can’t help it. You had your turn as a young fabulous woman. You overcame more adversity in the workplace. You made it through bad fashion and hair in the 80s and 90s. You are happily married or happily divorced and happily raising your children. You now have Chico’s, Ann Taylor, and many other fashion choices other than Dress Barn so you can look like us. High heels are not reserved for the 20-something. Wrinkles aren’t even necessarily required, and I bet if you scowled at me less and laughed with me more, you’d have less wrinkles. Plus you make more money than us. I am nice. I will get old, and when that day comes, we can gripe in private about the new hot intern. But if I were you, I’d be nice to me and that intern. She does the copying and gets the coffee. So you should be nice. Because even though I’m no intern, I might just get you coffee when I get my own. We could be friends, and you might actually like me. Plus I could maybe babysit your kids (though not for free, sorry). And wouldn’t that be nice? But if you’re a huge biotch, passive aggressive though it may be, I notice (because I’m smart) and I am not a fan (because I’m human).

Happy hunting, rooks. Be nice to the old people, and maybe they’ll be nice to you. And to you non-rookies: be nice to us, we might be your boss one day. Yeah, I went there. Plus I know where all the good shoe sales are, and I know you want in on that action.

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