Unchain my Heart

It has really gotten to be this thing with me.

Of course, I discovered, long ago, that I am not cut out for secretarial work, but like anything else in life, sometimes you are too far down a road before you realize where you’re headed. I am not saying I am too good for it or anything. Never. Cause I really believe the position should have some honor attached to it, but none of the ones I ever had did. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I am a woman. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Women are usually the secretaries in life and men are usually the bosses. Don’t ask me why. But then again, there have been times when I have encountered the occasional secretary who is a guy, and I’ve heard them complain of the same things I’m always yapping about. So what is it?

If it’s not a woman thing then what? I mean the stubborn side of me just wants to know. I keep taking these damn jobs and believing what these guys say in the interview process. Why? Am I missing something? They say the same stupid things over and over. “I need someone to run things. I am not organized and I need someone to help me get organized.” Or the great thing they’ll all tell you is, “I need someone who can think on their feet.” Famous last words. Then they pull the rug out from under those very same feet. No thinking allowed. There is a danger that you might have your own thoughts.

Part of the reason I got into this line of work to begin with is because I have a knack for organizing life into very small compartments. Not to mention, a natural talent for being able to do multiple tasks at the same time. These abilities come as easy as breathing to me. Every drawer, closet, or space I am in is organized to the nth degree. This strange habit started at a very young age.

As a child, I would go over to my father’s office and he would sit me down at one of the secretary’s desks, and there began my slide into oblivion. Cause instantly I took to that desk like a fish to water. I began putting every little desk accessory in order and I’d type out “I love you” notes to my father and sign them with my own signature. Then I’d go home and do the same with my mother’s space. The stuff in her kitchen cabinets was not only alphabetized and categorized, but dated. I got everyone in the habit of rotating his or her dishes and glasses, so that no piece of ware would sit and get dirty. I was a case I tell you.

My room, as you can imagine was spotless, but only on my side. The other side was disgusting. My sister, the scumbucket, lived on the other side. She didn’t care about taking care of or fixing up anything except her face as far as I could tell. And that hasn’t changed much.
But organizing things is only one tinynsee part of Sophie Mae Rosenthal. And all the other parts are all the time getting swept under the office carpet. I don’t get it. But I have come to look at it this way, the whole notion of being a “secretary” has got to be pretty bad if they named a piece of furniture after what you do.

There you have it. No matter how you slice it, here I am, once again, a secretary. The only difference this time is that they gave me a title.
And there ain’t nothing worse.

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