A Little on Knowing Your Motherloving Worth

Folks
keep asking me how the new job is going. And every time they
do I get shy. Embarrassed. Tongue-tied and flustered. “How’s work?” is one of
those questions we ask each that’s mostly formality, salutation even. How’s work? You alright? Are your boobs real?

I get
timid at the question because where I know I’m supposed to smile politely and
say great thanks, yes. Still getting used
to it all- haven’t buggered up yet, though! Ha, ha! I never have been a
very good liar. Or adept at being polite.

An
internal alarm goes off when I open my mouth to answer. Don’t seem too smug. Don’t exaggerate. Find something bad to balance
out the good. For godssake don’t mention the manicures.

I’m
not sure when it became A Thing to play down being so effin’ content. It’s like
being coaxed into orgasm by Shia Labeouf after he invites you lie down on a bed
of French lavender and hand-feeds you brie, only to then tell your girlfriends,
oh dat? Dat ain’t no thang but a chicken wing. So Imma just go on ahead and say
it: I’M FEELING PREEEEEETY AWESOME.

You
like me less for saying that, don’t you? See! HOW IS THAT A THING? 

How
is it A Thing that we feel expected to dim our happiness- especially about
work? Is it to make other people feel comfortable? Because they don’t love their job? Because jobs are
designed to suck? In polite company it’s not becoming to push the
awesome-ometer over average-to-middling, lest somebody else feels inadequate.
Jealous. Threatened? Fact: We shouldn’t have to err on the side of celebratory
caution when brilliant things are happening, and we shouldn’t have to squeak a yeah, fine thanks, when asked about
work. Or life. Or anything.

Deal?
Okay. Deal.

My
new gig is the cat’s pyjamas- a smorgasbord of challenges and learning. I feel
confident in my abilities- even though my accumulated experience in PR is
approximately six working days. AND YET! My new boss tells me my contributions
are brilliant, asks my opinions, recognises my strengths and guides me when I
don’t know. And dear god GUYS. I WORK IN ALL GIRL OFFICE. I didn’t realise how
much those fellas were bringing me down until we had a mani/pedi afternoon in
the meeting room.

Wooops.
I mentioned the manicures after all.

When
I answer the question, the how’s work? semi-interested
one, I find myself explaining that it’s incredible to me that in my last job,
the one I quit without a plan because, quite simply, I wasn’t happy, I put up with so much shit.

Shit
from my boss, shit from my own imagination- all of it. It was only six months, but
the time I spent watching the clock until home time made it feel like six years.
I let superiors tell me I wasn’t value for money, to not be me but somebody
else, accepted the culture of quantity over quality, and got told no, I
couldn’t even try that. Eventually I felt so superfluous to company success
that I pissed about on Facebook and Twitter as much as humanely possible
without getting fired. I didn’t so much teeter on the fine line that separates
“break between tasks” from “tasks between g-chat sessions” as make that fine
line my bitch. I was bored, and under stimulated, and accepted that when you
take a job to pay the bills that’s just how it’s gonna be.

That
is sooooo not how it has to be.

I see my worth now. I see how my years of blogging give insight into outreach
programs for clients. How my naturally talkative and curious personality is
basically PR 4 Lyf. I’ve got the confidence to contribute in team meetings
because my suggestions are welcomed and built upon. The simple act of hearing, nice work today, Laura, is enough to
mean that I feel valued. Like my turning up everyday actually matters.

I’m
part of a team.

I
don’t know why we accept less than we deserve. Power-hungry bosses, and lax
lovers, and crappy service in restaurants. Most of the time I’m too embarrassed
to not tip, even if the waitress eats
half my fries on the way to the table. And I know I’m not alone. It feels
self-important and a bit dick-ish to say HEY. I’M A LOVE MACHINE. AND I WON’T
WORK FOR NOBODY BUT ME. Or something. You know?

I
think the secret to absolute self-respect is in refusing to seek permission to be our best. Knowing our
worth is going right on ahead and pulling up a chair at the I Kick Ass table
because we know we deserve to be there. And who said so? WE DID.

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