I’d forgotten what it was like to be the new kid. Sometimes at work I find myself longing for some sort of Matrix moment, where everything I need to know can just be uploaded instantly. Still, I’m slowly starting to feel useful so that’s progress.
all women were bigger and stronger than you
and thought they were smarter
women were the ones who started wars
too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos
and no K-Y Jelly
the state trooper
who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike
was a woman
and carried a gun
the ability to menstruate
was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs
your attractiveness to women depended
on the size of your penis
every time women saw you
they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands
women were always making jokes
about how ugly penises are
and how bad sperm tastes
you had to explain what’s wrong with your car
to big sweaty women with greasy hands
who stared at your crotch
in a garage where you are surrounded
by posters of naked men with hard-ons
men’s magazines featured cover photos
of 14-year-old boys
tucked into the front of their jeans
and articles like:
“How to tell if your wife is unfaithful”
“What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate”
“The truth about impotence”
the doctor who examined your prostate
was a woman
and called you “Honey”
you had to inhale your boss’s stale cigar breath
as she insisted that sleeping with her
was part of the job
you couldn’t get away because
the company dress code required
you wear shoes
designed to keep you from running
And what if
after all that
women still wanted you
to love them.
For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It, written 20 years ago by Carol Diehl.
She wrote a post about the history of this poem that is worth reading.
Still patting myself, still asking if I’m okay. Heading into the final stretch now, two more days to go before the next big adventure. I’ll say more when I’ve actually left the building.
In the meantime, I guess snoopers gonna snoop.
But, of course, on being freed, people who’ve been psychologically crushed don’t immediately start doing glorious, confident, ostentatious things. Instead, they sit around for a while, going “What the fuck was that?”, and trying to work out why it happened, trying — often — to see if it was their fault.—
They have to work out what their relationship is with their former aggressors, and come up with new command structures — or work out if they want new command structures at all. There’s a need to share out experiences, a need to work out what a) ‘normal’ is and b) if you want to be it. And, above all, it takes time to work out what you really believe in — what you think for yourself.
If everything you have been taught is the history, mores and reasoning of your victors, it takes a long, long time to work out the bits you want to keep, which bits you want to throw away: which bits are poisonous to you, and which bits are salvageable.
In short, there is a long period of gently patting yourself, going “Am I OK? Am I all right?”, often followed by a long, long thoughtful silence before any action gets under way.
— Caitlin Moran, How To Be A Woman (via freaksareforconclusions)
I’ve just re-read this quote and realised that elements of it resonate with the job I’m getting ready to leave. Six and a half years with the company will finish next week, something that I don’t think I could have contemplated even six months ago. Many factors were involved in the decision, two factors featured testicles. Ultimately though, it came down to me thinking aloud to someone that perhaps 2014 would be the year I would start looking for another job. That someone asked me for my CV, and four working days later I had a job offer in hand, contract signed and resignation being negotiated.
When the universe delivers something that promptly, you have to act on it. It’s all so sudden though, that I’m still setting here patting myself thinking “Am I ok? Am I all right?”
New job, new challenges, different FIFO site. I can do this.