I zoom in on the little circle containing Joy Raffen’s photo. I’m sure her profile pic would open to a size that’s more pleasing to my middle aged eyes if I just opened her LinkedIn profile, but I refuse. I’m certain she’ll be able to tell- it will engage something, send some notification, and I’m not interested in any of that. “Leah,” she wrote, “I’m fascinated by what makes certain people memorable, not merely successful. Your profile made me curious…” I can’t read anything beyond that tantalizing opener without stepping into Joy’s world of stranger solicitations and I won’t do that to myself.
I’m loathe to admit that I experience a moment of temptation, an inkling. What if Joy is my savior? Joy who has a haircut like that loon who had a whole sports team worth of children and ended up on Dateline for torturing them with the assistance of her misguided loony lesbian pseudo partner. The style is incredibly dated and yet, I can’t imagine Joy having a different haircut outside of the thick, Karen preferred pixie cut with chunky highlights she’s playfully showing off in her miniature profile photo. Her glasses are thick tortoiseshell plastic frames and they scream non-prescription Temu. I imagine she asked ChatGPT what would make her look smart and also, approachable, and maybe a little flirty.
If not for Melissa and our conversation this morning, I imagine I wouldn’t be pressing my pointer finger into my smudged screen to get a better look at Joy Joy.
Melissa looked every part the Disney villain, even on the grainy Teams video- arms crossed over her bony chest, long dark hair falling limply around her severe cheekbones, and high arched eyebrows perfectly threaded (no doubt during her ample free time). This evidence of grooming enrages me, me with my unkempt eyebrows and raggedy fingernails, and split ends that are only hidden by the overall bird’s nest nature of my hair.
Put together is something I don’t have the luxury of these days, and the fact that she is so goddamn perfect looking is driving me mad. Knowing she’s an evil bitch changes nothing. She has the gall to complain to me, often. I’m a captive audience. I can’t tell her to shut the fuck up. Well, I could, but my retirement savings isn’t exactly where I need it to be quite yet and this incompetent administration has done its best to destroy an already decimated employment market, so my prospects are limited at best. She knows this and she uses it in every way that she can. Maybe she doesn’t, and this is just an unbearable status quo.
“Another fire drill earlier this morning,” she said, words slipping out through cosmetically enhanced lips that barely move. Nothing on her face moves, actually. She’s a cunty little statue. One that I’d like to shatter into a million uninteresting pieces with at least one of my two computer monitors. I miss the days of one monitor.
“Yes,” I replied. Her facial expressions are unreadable, but I know from experience that she’s looking for feedback, and responding yes feels benign enough.
“I guess it is what it is,” she said.
I couldn’t say yes again. I could have, but that felt aggressive.
“Sure is,” I replied.
“Did I tell you about what happened to me at the Open the other night?” She asked.
“Nope,” I said, trying to keep the disinterest and disdain out of my voice.
She started another story that had no ability to capture or keep my interest, and I allowed myself to space out. I stared at the miniature video camera perched at the top of my screen, and imagined it recording me throwing my monitor through the window behind me and escaping like some kind of tortured mutated human. I’d slide down the side of the building, and then, spread wings and fly, land gracefully on the sidewalk, and walk the rest of the way home. All 11 or so miles. I felt so certain that I’d be able to breathe again if I could just get out of here.
She’s so useless and everyone knows it and it’s the knowing that’s killing me. I can’t hear that the emperor has no clothes one more time from one of my colleagues. I can’t bear witness to the shared knowing and the shared desire to do nothing. Nothing!
This is what female empowerment looks like to a gaggle of white men with large egos and average genitalia and invisible pockets of courage. Keep the woman in a position of power, no matter her skill set. Celebrate her for her nonexistent contributions. Allow her to drive mad her subordinates, once you’ve discussed and decided that they are trapped and likely, will just make whole all of the spaces she leaves empty. Human filler.
I have fantasies about pulling her hair all the time. It’s so fucking strange. This is not something I even contemplated as a child and now, I imagine bits of pale, well moisturized epidermis dangling off a long, black strand that’s clutched between my damp fingers.
I’ve told myself that some of my rage is hormones, but I don’t think it is, not really. I think I’m done.
I know I’m exhausted. Melissa knows it too, and even Joy knows it. Joy who is going to sell me a solution to this nightmare for the low low price of a monthly fee and a carved out section of my soul. Joy who has built some sort of pyramid scheme scam on LinkedIn where she preys on the overworked and underpaid. Those who have lost the will but have no other options.
Melissa had clearly finished her diatribe or story or whatever it is she’s been doing. “Oops,” I said, “I’m late to a call….” knowing full well the hour isn’t even and this is silly. No one starts a call at 2:11 pm. I imagine she knew it too, but cares so little about everything that even this doesn’t matter. “Sounds goo-“
I hung up before she could finish. She didn’t even eke out the “d”. Ah well, that’s that.
And now, I click on Joy’s message properly and open her message in LinkedIn.
“Joy,” I write, gleefully, “I appreciate your outreach, but I’m extremely pleased in my position at present. However, I have a colleague of mine who I am certain would benefit from your boundless skills and energy. Her name is Melissa and here is her LinkedIn profile.” I copy and paste Melissa’s profile into the small message box and hit send.
This exercise is wholly irrational but oddly satisfying.
I pull out my overpriced hand sanitizer that smells like lemongrass and lavender and spray it around me like I’m sage-ing the room.
There, that’s better, I think.
Much, much better.
x
L.
thepathtoworthy.com 