Working 9 to 5

There’s this Chris Rock comedy special where he explains the difference between people who have careers and people who have jobs. He colourfully states that people with careers make the people with jobs feel awful and should just shut the hell up about their working bliss. Unfortunately I fall into the latter category. I have a job. Not a career I wake up early for. Not a career I don’t mind working later for. And not a career I can snootily parade in front of others to make them feel bad. Btw, my dream career would be a features writer at a magazine. A little like The Devil wears Prada.

Sadly I got side-tracked in my third year of studies and opted for an easy way to feed my clothes and shoe addiction rather than trying to find something that even resembled what I remotely studied. My first real job, retail experience aside, was as a receptionist in a wellness centre. That’s a fancy term for a beauty spa. I have to admit that I was great at this job. I’m not being an arrogant bitch. It’s the truth; mostly because it’s wasn’t a hard job. I found the application of a little teeth and tits around clients worked wonders. If you can handle demanding consumers, deal with kids in the waiting area and advise on overly expensive face creams that rid the skin of acne, you would also be a receptionist supremeo. Unfortunately after too many beauty therapists bitching at each other, an unmotivating manager and seriously low wages, I left.

This was not a problem because I had another job lined up. I was actually going to be working at a magazine. My dream job. Then budget cuts struck. I was unceremoniously fired before I’d even signed a contract. In a moment of haste, I took the first job that came my way. Anything other than being a receptionist. And what did I end up being…a receptionist. Not to start off with. I’d originally just filled a position left by the Hot Mama who was on maternity leave. It was admin, it was easy and I was making a lot more. Months went by, they renewed my contract and all of a sudden I noticed a change. Their original receptionist wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box. I thought she was sweet if a little special. Then with my admin and previous front of house experience, I was offered her job. And a pay increase. I shamelessly took my new position. After all, my new winter clothes were not going to pay for themselves. It’s almost been a year since that happened and now I still work in the same job doing the same thing I tried to leave all those months ago.

And now it’s really beginning to get to me. It’s not that I loathe the job or the company. It’s a great company; there are loads of perks plus I love the people I work with. There’s Hot Mama who is now preggers with her second child; the Social Butterfly who’s got a fabulous life I envy; Mr Uppity who is proud with no apologies (I love his comments about our less-than fabulous coworkers); and then there’s my boss, the Navy Seal. These are all people I’d really miss if I left. But if I don’t leave it’ll be like settling for Mickey Rourke when I could have Hugh Jackman. After all, when you’re an office administrator how much further can you go.

Those are just some of the bad things…the other thing that really makes me want to leave are some of the not-so-cool coworkers I have to deal with. I’m talking about the touchy-feely guy who stands behind me and watches what I do on my computer without any dignity. I can be doing my banking, checking out facebook or updating the company website and suddenly he’s there behind me. Having a look at my depleted savings fund or watching me tag my weekend pictures. Things are not helped by the fact that he resembles Eric Cartman. I swear if he wears a beanie in winter and zip-up top, I’ll wet myself.

Then there’s the guy dubbed Creepazoid. He is the sole reason I believe my death will occur during working hours at my place of business. He’s not a just a starer, but a super-starer. I can be on the other side of the office and I can feel his beady–eyes on me. I can be eating my breakfast at my desk and I can sense he’s watching me. I can be sharing a joke with my besties and he’s there, smiling along like he’s a part of the freakin’ group. It’s moments like these that I’m convinced he has the entire office bugged and when we think he’s listening to his Ipod, he’s merely making moves to distinguish where his next victim lives. At times I think I’m just being a bitch; that’s when I try and make an effort. Turns out I’m not a bitch, he’s just a weirdo. He’s tall, almost 30 and still dresses like a wannabe Eminem – doesn’t he know that sad, white boy rappers went out of style ages ago. He has no social skills and scares the bejesus out of me.

And I have to deal with him. Just like I have to deal with Cartman and his space issues (which he apparently doesn’t have). Just like I have to deal with answering phones, taking messages and ordering office supplies.

It’s called paying your dues. And when I’m done – is that a sunset I see in the horizon – I know I’ll be happy.

Now if only I didn’t have to bring a can of mace to work.

Ex-oh! Ex-oh!