The importance of movement (and escaping the place where dreams go to die)
In my last place of employment, I worked with two other girls: Mandy and Amy. Mandy was 28, had the same birthday as me, knew every lyric to every song on the radio, was pretty, but slouched too much and had the most infectious laugh. She sat to my left. Amy was 26, had freckles, was a master manipulator, always kept her cool and had some really enviable knockers. Her laugh sounded like a cackle. She sat across from me.
The three of us were the pre-cogs, the trinity of bitches who talked to no one but each other and a few of the party boys in the other department to see what they were doing for lunch or happy hour. We worked together, ate lunch together, talked about everything and guarded our privacy from the “dead hearts” and everyone else like it was the key to the oracle of truth. We hated the dead hearts and the dead hearts hated no one because there is no hate when your heart is dead. I learned a lot about human nature in the year I spent at that company -- the ugliness of greed and deception; the paralysis of fear; the camaraderie that forms in the face of adversity; and the spirit's ability to keep going after terrible things happen to you. Terrible things like cancer.
It was a particularly slow afternoon and Mandy and I talked quietly as usual. Amy strategically placed her head on her desk with her pen in her hand, claiming to have a migraine. We had turned off the overhead lights and used our desk lamps to see our “work.” In a short time, Amy fell asleep and Mandy and I kept talking.
Mandy had been back at work only two weeks and it was obvious that she was still recovering from her surgery. She strained to move a stack of papers to the other desk.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked me.
“A writer. You?”
“Nothing. I want to marry rich and shop all day,” she said.
“Did you think that when you were little?” I asked.
She thought for a while. “No. I didn’t think about anything when I was little.”
“You must have had some dreams, though. Like, what do you want to do when you get out of this place?”
“I don’t know. You?”
“I’m not sure. Send out some resumes, talk to people…I guess just try and get another job. One where there aren’t any dead hearts. I just know I can’t stay here. This is the place where dreams come to die. It’s too depressing.”
She stayed quiet for a long time. I looked at my stack of papers, the clock, then at Amy, who was still sleeping on her stack and holding her pen. Mandy spoke again.
“I just can’t believe I’ve spent four years here and I have nothing to show for it. I went to school, busted my ass and now I’m here. I’m at the same point I was when I graduated, but worse somehow. It's like my 'problem' keeps coming back and I can't move forward. I have no idea what I want to do, you know?”
We never talked openly about her 'problem', although I knew what she meant.
“It’s hard,” I said.
“I don’t want to work anymore. I hate being a grown-up. I just wish I was young again!” She started to cry.
“Excuse me,” she said, getting up.
When Mandy came back, I asked her if she was okay.
“I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. She kind of laughed. “I have issues.”
Two months later, Mandy did in fact leave. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do but she kept moving. That’s the important thing.
*Names have been changed to protect the unsure.
The three of us were the pre-cogs, the trinity of bitches who talked to no one but each other and a few of the party boys in the other department to see what they were doing for lunch or happy hour. We worked together, ate lunch together, talked about everything and guarded our privacy from the “dead hearts” and everyone else like it was the key to the oracle of truth. We hated the dead hearts and the dead hearts hated no one because there is no hate when your heart is dead. I learned a lot about human nature in the year I spent at that company -- the ugliness of greed and deception; the paralysis of fear; the camaraderie that forms in the face of adversity; and the spirit's ability to keep going after terrible things happen to you. Terrible things like cancer.
It was a particularly slow afternoon and Mandy and I talked quietly as usual. Amy strategically placed her head on her desk with her pen in her hand, claiming to have a migraine. We had turned off the overhead lights and used our desk lamps to see our “work.” In a short time, Amy fell asleep and Mandy and I kept talking.
Mandy had been back at work only two weeks and it was obvious that she was still recovering from her surgery. She strained to move a stack of papers to the other desk.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked me.
“A writer. You?”
“Nothing. I want to marry rich and shop all day,” she said.
“Did you think that when you were little?” I asked.
She thought for a while. “No. I didn’t think about anything when I was little.”
“You must have had some dreams, though. Like, what do you want to do when you get out of this place?”
“I don’t know. You?”
“I’m not sure. Send out some resumes, talk to people…I guess just try and get another job. One where there aren’t any dead hearts. I just know I can’t stay here. This is the place where dreams come to die. It’s too depressing.”
She stayed quiet for a long time. I looked at my stack of papers, the clock, then at Amy, who was still sleeping on her stack and holding her pen. Mandy spoke again.
“I just can’t believe I’ve spent four years here and I have nothing to show for it. I went to school, busted my ass and now I’m here. I’m at the same point I was when I graduated, but worse somehow. It's like my 'problem' keeps coming back and I can't move forward. I have no idea what I want to do, you know?”
We never talked openly about her 'problem', although I knew what she meant.
“It’s hard,” I said.
“I don’t want to work anymore. I hate being a grown-up. I just wish I was young again!” She started to cry.
“Excuse me,” she said, getting up.
When Mandy came back, I asked her if she was okay.
“I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. She kind of laughed. “I have issues.”
Two months later, Mandy did in fact leave. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do but she kept moving. That’s the important thing.
*Names have been changed to protect the unsure.
posted by deconstructionist at 3:17 PM
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