Archive: Working Girl

A couple of weeks ago, when my manager found out that my birthday was coming up, she told me that people on the floor like to go out to lunch to celebrate, and did I have a preference for a restaurant? I assured her that I would be fine with anything, but deep down, I hoped with all my strength that nothing would come of this purported lunch date.

It’s not that I dislike the people with whom I work. It’s more that I don’t really work with anyone because my job is so isolated. After five months on the job, barely a handful of folks even know my name, much less what I do. I’m not directly attached to a specific team of people, and I receive work as it comes because I am not a dedicated resource for anyone. To be fair, I haven’t made much effort at all to meet people, but after receiving the lion’s share of sideways glances throughout the holiday lunch, I wasn’t eager to take the initiative. Although it might sound lonely, I like having my own domain of expertise, and I savor my quiet lunch times. The prospect of having lunch with co-workers who don’t know me (I could just picture it: “RA’s birthday? Who’s RA?”) and being trapped at some chain restaurant for an undetermined amount of time was, well, not very attractive.

My birthday came and went, but no lunch plans ever materialized. I thought I was safe. This week, my manager popped her head into my office and said, “How does lunch on Tuesday sound? For your birthday?”

“Oh. Okay, that’s fine.”

What else could I say? “No, thanks, I’d rather eat my warmed-up leftovers than sit awkwardly,” and “Do I have to pay?” are not included in suitable responses to lunch invitations. So, yesterday, I took a deep breath, stuck my container of rotini and chicken in the mini-fridge, and went out to lunch.

There were only six of us, but I felt odd as the youngest person by at least fifteen years. I heard stories about the high price of a grandchild’s school tuition, drinking stories from college days of yore, and why fighting high cholesterol is like “fixing something that’s not broken.” I was referred to as “the baby” no less than three times, and each occurrence prompted a discussion about how young people have it so easy these days and do I ever stop texting? Oh, I don’t text? What about that MySpace thing? Oh, I don’t do that, either? Well, young people do that stuff. These women had all read it somewhere.

I ate my ravioli much more quickly than I would have normally (i.e., if I had been contributing to the conversation), and it was a pleasant surprise when my manager paid for my meal. All told, the lunch wasn’t that bad, and my meal was tasty. At the very least, I had a better time than the intern, who had the misfortune of being the only male present and still a college student.

When I finally got back to my office, I had the following exchange with a doctor who is no small source of annoyance to me:

Doctor: Was today your birthday?
RA: No, it was actually last week.
Doctor: Why didn’t I wish you a happy birthday last week?
RA: I … don’t know.
Doctor: Oh, so you kept it a secret.
RA: Well, you know …
Doctor: How old are you turning, 21?
RA: Uh, no, that was a while ago.
Doctor: I’m just trying to comment on how young you look.
RA: Oh. Okay.
Doctor: Well, whatever. (walks away)
RA: … (with question mark floating above head)

How would I know why he didn’t wish me a happy birthday? Why would telling me that I look 21 be a compliment? It’s not like I have to strive to look remarkably younger in a department where the average age is 45. And I wasn’t about to tell him my real age without being asked directly, because it would have undoubtedly garnered another declaration of my “baby” status. That conversation typifies exactly why I did not look forward to my birthday lunch. Next year, I’m taking the day off.

At my previous job, I cried through every single one of my performance evaluations. As a girl who dreaded the idea of being sent to the principal’s office or getting pulled over, the sit-down meeting with my manager, from the San Francisco headquarters, was a looming confrontation. For a 40-person, progressive company, the process was surprisingly formal. A few weeks before the agree-upon date to meet with my manager, I had to identify 3-5 co-workers to provide written feedback on my performance. They would submit their comments through an online survey form, and then my manager synthesized them into a cohesive performance review that we discussed during a 90-minute meeting behind closed doors.

In general, I received positive comments on my performance, but remarks about my inability to be flexible arose each time. It was not a situation where I could defend myself and protest that I felt like I was the only one who tried hold people accountable to critical points in project timelines, so I would sit there, wringing my hands and biting my lip. Despite any number of positive comments, the few pieces of stinging feedback nestled into my brain and took hold; I felt simultaneously wronged for trying to do my job as best as I could and belittled from the safety of an anonymous comment because of personality differences. The tears would well up, slowly at first and easy to blink away, but at a certain point, I readied a tissue to catch the first teardrop on my cheek.

I inevitably left those meetings with smeared makeup, and I made a beeline to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and blow my nose. I entered the evaluations with anxiety, and I left with those presuppositions confirmed, so I don’t know why the experience was always such a shock to the system. I guess I was always stunned by the difference in perception between what I thought was honest, hard work, and what others saw as rigidity and unfriendliness. I felt utterly helpless in converting my energy into something that would be seen differently, and I was defeated at the thought that my efforts up to that point were fruitless.

This week, I had my 90-day evaluation at my new job, and the experience could not have been more different. On Monday, my manager breezily mentioned that she had received the evaluation form from HR, and we’d take care of it “sometime tomorrow morning.” My workplace has a 90-day probationary period where managers assess whether or not to fire new employees, so with a favorable evaluation, I’d be allowed to stay in the job and take time off. I immediately tensed up and referred back to the spreadsheet where I’d been tracking my projects so that I could answer to my turnaround time and overall workload. I had no idea what the criteria for this evaluation was, how long it would take, or what I was expected to prepare, so I pulled together everything I could and waited for the moment of judgment.

Around noon on Tuesday, my manager popped into my office unexpectedly, holding a two-page form, and I swiveled in my desk chair, snapping to attention. At break-neck speed, she explained that the form simply asked her to rate me in regard to punctuality, competence, interest, and culture fit between the descriptive options of Meets Expectations or Does Not Meet Expectations. Based on her ratings, she would then check off a box to indicate her recommendation to Continue Employment, Discontinue Employment, or Extend Probation Period. She had no comments to add to the form, so she showed me that I had met expectations and my employment would be continued, and could I please sign on the dotted line to show that I understood? With that, she was out the door.

My head was spinning. That was it? That was the evaluation? Nothing to work on, nothing to work toward? Huh. Well, I still have a job, and I can take some time off now. I have the security of knowing that I meet expectations. I am sufficiently adequate! Yes!

And, hey, I didn’t cry.

I really like being efficient. I like knowing that I am getting the maximum amount of work done and minimizing time spent and effort exerted. It’s part of the challenge behind running errands, doing housework, and doing actual work work. Cooking a casserole while the dryer spins and then folding laundry while the dishwasher runs is sweet harmony. Doubling back during a trip to the grocery store is aggravation.

I have come to find, however, that when I encounter someone who does not share this viewpoint, it is like we are speaking two different languages. I can’t understand why that person doesn’t want to do something faster or better, and it’s a mystery as to why I am always in a rush. For example, let’s examine conversations with my supervisor today about an organization-wide list:

Me: I just sent you the finished list to send out for corrections.

She: Great. I’ll send it out with a note to send in revisions by Tuesday.

Me: Will they go to you?

She: I think that’s the easiest, since we won’t get more than a handful.

Me: Sounds good.

(An hour elapses. I receive the mass mailing with the list attached. I send my supervisor an addition to the list that someone has sent independently. She re-sends the e-mail back to me immediately, along with several other revisions, asking me to input them.)

Me: Am I making the changes to the list? I thought we had agreed that you were receiving them.

She: Yes, people will send them to me, but you can just input the ones from today.

Me: Are we going to have trouble with different versions?

She: No, I’ll just keep any additions I get in a separate file. You’re just going to add the new ones because I haven’t physically set up a folder yet.

Me: Oh. … Do you want me to send you the list after I make those changes today?

She: No, just hang on to it for now.

I go back to my desk. I enter the changes and re-save the file with Monday’s date. I am so confused. Why doesn’t she keep a master list and track the changes? Or why don’t I manage the whole thing? What does it mean that she hasn’t physically set up a folder? She hasn’t taken a folder out of the supply closet? Or she hasn’t right-clicked and chosen “New Folder”? How will we know who has done what? If I receive revisions from people, should I input them or send them to her to file?

I think there’s something going on here about the way things have always been, how I don’t have a full understanding of that history, and a mystifying dependence on hard copies, but I am unclear about why we would add steps and points of contact into a process. It’s not that things need to be done my way, but I don’t understand the advantage of this way, not that my supervisor needs to justify herself. I just don’t get it.

I’m kind of relieved that today is Friday, and when I get home, I can chop vegetables and make dip as efficiently as I darn well please.

TGIF! In the last afternoon of my first week at the new job, I have the following observations and conclusions:

• My office is freezing. I’m almost always cold wherever there is air conditioning, so I’ve learned to have a sweater and/or a scarf with me at all times, but this office is a whole different story. When I’m not typing or using the mouse, I’m sitting on my hands to warm them up. Not surprisingly, I am totally unmotivated to drink the bottle of water I bring everyday.
• As though to counteract the arctic mornings, my window lets in blistering afternoon sun on clear days. As grateful as I am for the natural light, my black hair is baking my head.
• On a related note, I feel obligated to have a plant because of the sunlight. Inconveniently, I am the angel of death for plants, so I think I may need to get a cactus-type form of vegetation. Or maybe bamboo?
• So far, I’ve managed to lock myself out of my office (temporarily — the lock is finicky), render the supply cabinet impregnable, and momentarily lose my car in the parking garage. Let’s hope no one noticed.
• After working at an office of only a dozen people, I am not familiar with the etiquette of the Common Microwave. I used to just take stuff out and holler that a Lean Cuisine was finished, but I have a feeling that that type of thing won’t fly around here. My apprehension reminds me of the universal question of whether or not to take someone’s laundry out of the dryer in college. Yesterday, I trotted out to warm up my leftovers and found a container of Indian food sitting in the microwave. I went back to my office to wait for two minutes. When I returned, it was still sitting there. I waited for three more minutes. On the third trip back, the Indian food was placed on top of the microwave and a new container of macaroni and cheese was simmering inside. After a moment of hesitation, I took a quick scan of my surroundings, switched out the macaroni for my pasta, and made it back to my desk chair without incident. Presently, the owner of the Indian food asked the general populace who had removed his food and I admitted to taking out the food belonging to the person who took his food out. I mean, I waited at least five minutes, which I think is a healthy statute of limitations relative to microwave time durations. With no frame of reference, I have no idea if I’m being reasonable or ridiculous.
• I work in a low-traffic, quiet end of the third floor of the hospital and there is generally no reason for me to walk around, so I’ve made a point of parking on the top level of the garage and taking all of the stairs in the garage and the building. Everyday. Both directions.
• Having high ceilings is cruel when you can only reach halfway up the walls, on a good day, with heels. It’s not as though I have shelves up there, but if I did, I wouldn’t be able to reach them. It’s the principle of the thing.
• I need some tunes, which will require me to bring in some old computer speakers and a stack of CDs to rip next week. I’m thinking a mix of classical/movie soundtrack/jazz/mellow will do just fine.
• The walls are crying out for some decoration, but the best, low-cost treatment I have come up with so far involves slapping up prints from my 2003 Ansel Adams calendar. I am not crazy about the idea due to my reticence to revert back to poster-putty decorating.
• I really miss my old office’s community label maker. I think I might put one on this year’s Christmas list.
• My supervisor told me frightening tales of the legendary critters around this part of the “old hospital” and I am not excited at all about the prospect of a mouse roaming around. Yesterday, I saw a huge cockroach zipping through the air, making a sound like an electric razor. It landed on the wall with an audible fwap and left me thoroughly skeezed.
• All of the content I am editing is flying straight over my head and not just because I am short. I have created research posters about the diagnostic use of an epidural blood patch and normalizing oxygen-based energy measures of gait. At the moment, I am editing a paper about genome mutation and I do not understand a word of it, but I can still edit it competently. Thank goodness that comprehension is not a prerequisite.
• If I answer my phone by lifting up, like I’m accustomed, I will bang the phone very loudly on my metal cabinet, which I totally did today when a nurse called for information. It was great. And not at all embarrassing. Must lift out, not up.
• I am enjoying the Power of the Red Pen a little too much.
• I get a thrill out of answering the phone with, “Editorial Services, this is RA,” because it means that I am an editor for real!