dictation's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- hormonal and mental On three hours sleep I am heading to the gym. Because I just have to. I have been so lazy and neglectful of the abs, the muscles, the heart, and the flab. I cannot put this off any longer. My skin is a veritable patchwork of teeny zits. Must.cut.out.chocolate.before.periods. The period, it started this morning. On schedule. Lovely. (And yet not!) I am helplessly munching on an oat fudge bar because, as you may know, PMS will linger even past the time the uterine train starts to roll. I am so hormonal I am mental. Don't come near me, I could be the menopausal crow that, at this moment, is having a conniption in the middle of the street. The cars are swerving. (Lucky little snarkers, nobody bats an eyelash when they have a fit.) Also, I feel so unloved and pariah like this week. Seriously! I am not joking. Colleagues are ignoring all emails and two are treating me like shit. What gave? Because something is obviously wrong. And I'll never find out what. Because the ones who look up, down and sideways? Everywhere but at you? Why they never say! Except when you leave? They say and say and say. And you know and know and know, and it's one of those dishonest, tacky, mean little dynamics that thrill human beings. You won't find this behaviour in dogs or cats or hamsters. If an elephant doesn't like you, it leeeeeaaans. Agaaaiiiiiinnst you. Effortlessly. And so casually! And presto. You are noodles. It seems I am not the kind of human to give an elephant or a dog or a cat, or a hammie, for that matter, a reason to turn me into noodles. But humans? I appear to give them plenty. I wracked my memory searching for reasons to blame myself for this latest tension because, you know, it has to be my fault. I've done something. The team... you have to walk on eggshells and if you crack one, you're dead meat. Boss. keeps. sending. very. nice. intern. to ask me to do things for him. She comes and stands at my desk and starts with "He would like you to..." The protocol is all wrong, R says. R is right about these things. Totally bizarre and wrong. Work that takes hours to prepare and is obviously thoughtfully constructed never gets ONE THANK YOU. This seems the height of rudeness to me. When someone does work specifically for me, I say "Thank you" and "good work" and "I really appreciate it." And mean it. Even if I don't particularly care for them as an individual. Because it's just done. But this guy avoids direct contact. He seems a bit - a lot - put off. I've looked in the mirror and as far as I know I am human. Nothing Bride of Chuckeyish stares back. My fangs look clean. He seems to like what I do but really, I have no idea what he thinks as he never says a word about the work, just sends an intern over to demand more of it. Yesterday, I tell ya, yesterday I was almost in tears. Because every day this week I worked 9+ hours straight, ate lunch at my desk, did not take breaks. I almost cried on the subway on the way home, I was feeling so hurt by the collective rejection. I kept telling myself "it's your hormones!" Lucky for us women we have hormones to attribute every emotion to. Because we're just "too sensitive" for our own good. Is there some way to separate the person from the labour the person does and like the labour and still dislike the person? I guess there is! I don't get it. I don't like feeling like...Zero. Pariah. That's me. Please read my previous entry. It's lighter and more, me. 2:30 p.m. - 12 June 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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