I seem to have been assigned a VERY uncomfortable office chair in my new job. I’ve ceased to complain about it because quite frankly I’m fucking grateful to have a job… god knows it’s been a while since anyone dared to hire me. And I really can’t complain because I don’t think they know who I am yet.
By that I mean, I don’t think they know that even though I come in every day and sit down and write things, looking relatively normal, like everyone else, when I go home at night, I am drunk-Becky, or Becky-who-eats-too-many-pies, or Becky-who-goes-to-karaoke-till-3am-on-school-nights-and-pretends-she’s-got-a-headache-just-cos-she-read-her-Bible-by-candelight-till-3am-instead. I’m trying not to let that side of me show.
I don’t want to complain about my chair because as soon as I do, alarm bells will sound. They’ll know I’m nothing but a whinging pom. I’ll confirm the stereotype. Instead of looking at me tottering around on my heels, trying not to fall over and spill my porcelain “office mug” of Earl Grey, thinking I’m a regular human, they’ll see instead the real me. They’ll categorise me. I’ll be “the girl who complained about the chair”. I’ll be the one they look at and think, “I just got on with it. And yes, I’m sitting here in crippled misery, but I just got on with it. What makes YOU so special? Why should YOU get another fucking chair!?!”
I don’t want to be that girl.
Being new is a bit funny. I’m tottering around in heels because obviously I’m still dressing to impress, though it won’t be long before I’m back in the flip flops, let’s face it. In my last cool job in London, I actually got so comfortable and carefree I had a pair of Andrex Puppy slippers under my desk. I’d wear them all day. Everyone would admire the little dog head on each one when I walked past them to the printer, or the kitchen. I was so at peace with my old office surroundings that I’m pretty sure, had I stayed another ten years, I’d have walked around in the nude.
It’ll be a while before I can swap heels for slippers. There are a lot of pretty girls here, and a lot of very nice boys. They don’t need to be seeing nodding dog heads on my feet right now. They need to be told the lie – you know – the lie all girls tell when they wear fucking awful, painful, crippling shoes that they just want to kick off and out the nearest window. But… ACTUALLY… if I keep wearing high heels and I keep sitting in this chair, I’ll have crippled legs and a crippled back. I won’t be able to do any work at all. They’ll have to wheel me round in a special contraption, make my Earl Grey for me, maybe even let me wear my slippers ‘cause they’ll feel soooooo bad for putting me in this irreversible position. I might get a huge pay off and not have to work anymore… which would be awesome. But I’d be crippled so that would be shit.
I don’t know what to do. When is too soon to moan? When is too soon to do anything in a new job? When can I be my whinging self?