The Corporate Ballet

I used to be stationed at the junior designer desk of a highy respected office.

Yep, that magical spot where you act like you’re deeply invested in everyone’s design dilemmas while secretly calculating if you’ve consumed enough caffeine to avoid a dramatic scream into the abyss. And let me tell you, I was a pro. The kind of pro that inspires emails filled with an excessive amount of exclamation points!!! But hey, I had dreams… big ones. Like climbing the ladder, inhaling some fresher air, and maybe even sitting in a chair that doesn’t sound like a haunted house door every time you lean slightly to the left.

But then, as if the universe was bored and wanted some entertainment, the company decided to switch owners. Of course, Chaos ensued.

It was like a game of telephone gone wrong, with people calling each other in a panic, sharing their fears like they were trading Pokémon cards. Meanwhile, in this slow-cooking stew of anxiety, I kept my head down, trying to tune out the drama. And then, there it was .. like a beacon of hope .. a new job posting on the portal. "Manager". CLICK. FILL. SEND.

She called me in.

Now, when I say "she," I'm not talking about just any old manager. I'm talking about the kind of manager who wears authority like it's their favorite superhero cape and believes "leadership" means convincing you that without them, you'd be out there trying to sell hot air to a wind turbine.

She sits me down, looks me in the eye with that fake empathy that only HR and cult leaders have mastered, and says, "You know what? We’ve got new management in town! And, oh boy, there’s a shiny new job opening: Office Assistant. It’s a few grades down the ladder (a few floors down the building too), but who knows? Maybe something more exciting will pop up soon!"

"But, what exactly do you do? Huh... mm." Suddenly, two years' worth of design requests and emails zoom past my mind like a chaotic slideshow, and I transform into a Shaolin monk, poised to deliver a perfectly timed Buddhist palm strike.

Now, true to being the corporate abusive pimp she was, she didn't yell or swear or threaten to break her foot in my arse. I mean, she looked at me with big pitying eyes, took my hand in hers. “You’re just not made for the 9-to-5 world,” she coos, like some self-motivational guru from an overpriced corporate retreat. “They won’t treat you like I do.”

I thought to myself, You mean like dangling demotions and insulting my intelligence in the same breath?

She kept going. “You’re valuable. So valuable that I’m willing to overlook your… flaws.”

Oh, the sweet aroma of manipulation .. like expired perfume and burning bridges.

Translation: If you leave, I’ll actually have to hire two competent people, and God forbid anyone else gives up their weekend to deal with these sadistic design requests. Plus, being my office assistant, you get to be my personal slave.

So there I am, trying to be all polite and sophisticated, and I blurt out like a total buffoon that I want to "spread my wings." Yep, I actually said that. Blame it on the TED Talk I watched that morning. It was either that or the morning caffeine.

She reluctantly gives me the green light, but not before giving me that look like she’s stabbing me with a plastic fork. "You only know so much," she says. "I don't think you have the skills needed to be a manager there." In my head, I'm already fashioning an imaginary noose just for her. When I don't flinch, she goes for the classic psychological jab, "What are your aspirations? Huh? Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Eh?"

"Creative Director "

She cackled like a wicked witch, "You? A junior designer? Honey, it takes years to climb the ladder to manager-ville," she sneered, "And if you want to be an Senior Creative, just tack on another decade of experience and a portfolio the size of a small country." She added with a smirk, "A Creative Director needs focus, determination, and stability .. none of which are in you.." Meanwhile, I was mentally measuring her for a broomstick ride to the ceiling hook, pondering, How exactly does one hang a hag?

Fast forward, and I land the new gig. I get the big desk, the room with actual sunlight, and air that doesn't make me want to cry. Even better, they already knew me from the creative work I did .. no do-over nights. My work had spoken for itself. My reputation had entered the room before I did, much like that cologne-drenched uncle who crashes weddings without an invite.

Then, radio silence.

No email. No call. No smoke signal. Nothing. Zilch.

I reach out to the new boss, who suddenly sounds like a man being held hostage in his own office. He says, “Uh… yeah, about that job… We’re pulling the offer.”

What?

“It’s just not a good fit,” he mumbles, like he’s reading from a teleprompter written by Satan and Legal.

And right there .. bingo! I hear it. The same corporate BS tone my old manager uses when she’s not yelling at her own minions or killing morale in the break room.

I ask, “Did you speak to her?”

He stops dead in his tracks, like he just farted in the middle of a church service and is crossing his fingers that no one caught wind of it. Then, out of nowhere, he blurts, “So, apparently, your attendance is, uh, a bit like a ghost. You're rarely seen. And, oh, you strut around the office like a peacock, sleeves rolled up, looking as approachable as a cactus and not exactly winning any awards for client-friendly fashion.”

My soul leaves my body.

"Did it ever cross her mind that I'm juggling 15 requests a day while also playing referee for other departments, all from a cozy little nook that used to be a storage closet? Oh, and did I mention it's an air conditioning-free zone?"

Dead silence.

Then the guy actually laughs. “Oh… right!”

Yeah, right, genius. I only keep the department running when the rest of you are asleep dreaming about KPIs and overpriced ergonomic chairs.

So the job gets reinstated, but that’s not the end, oh no.

On the day of my grand office migration, I stroll in to discover a gigantic sign yelling at me from the door: “ATTENTION MOVERS: DO NOT MOVE ANYTHING OUT OF THIS OFFICE!!!”

A threat wrapped in an exclamation mark sandwich. Passive-aggressive enough to qualify as a corporate memo.

I stood there, giving it the ol' stink eye, debating whether to unleash my inner Hulk or my inner Jesus. Went with sarcasm instead .. turns out it’s way less likely to land me in prison!

The office-messenger with the movers show up. One of them whistles and goes,

“Who the hell did you piss off?”

“Apparently some Asshole with a printer and a grudge.”

He laughs, walks up to the door, and says,

“You know the problem with paper signs?”

“What?”

“They fall off real easy…” He winks.

I smile. And I rip that sign down like it owes me money.

“Right this way,”

And away we roll, lugging my stuff to a new floor, right past Miss Toxic Manager. She’s standing there, lips zipped tighter than a pickle jar, eye doing the cha-cha, probably scribbling in my HR file with something mysterious like “exhibited a rebellious tone while making a grand exit.”

And the look on her face?

Gold .. Pure theatre. A Shakespearean tragedy performed under her sad office fluorescent lighting.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the day I walked out with my head high and my middle finger higher .. metaphorically, of course. HR and Accounts payable were still watching.