Skip to main content

Secret Diary of a Secretary

 

I'm leaving secretarial work. I ought never to have started. 
 
A large part of being a secretary is offering false, tolerant smiles to entitled people who are shouting at you. I imagine the entitled people are far, far worse when the secretary is female.

There is the cliche: The things you love about a new situation are the same things that you will come to hate. I became a secretary because the mundane, predictable tasks appealed to me. Now the predictability drives me up the wall.

I think the number-one thing I hate about secretarial work is The Diplomatic E-mail Task. Your privileged client has not done the thing you've requested. You know this--clear as day--but you can't begin your follow-up email by saying, "You didn't do that simple thing you needed to do." You must feign tact, even feign a small amount of mystification: "My record indicates you have not set up your account. The record may be in error. If so, could you please..... But if the record is *not* in error, could you please...."

The fiction of the possibly erroneous record. This is something all secretaries must lean on.

I am leaving the desk to become a tutor. I had once thought that secretarial work would be a helpful placeholder; being at the desk would allow my brain some rest, so that I could launch some kind of writing career. I'm still baffled by that hazy dream. But I continue to like writing, and I know that I have a weird ability to get other people interested in writing. And I know that this ability is unusual.

It's with some terror that I wander back into the tutoring world--self-confidence has never been a major part of my psyche--but I know I'll figure things out. And I'm maybe pleased to feel that terror. It has been missing for a while. It's not--or not entirely--a bad thing. Stay tuned.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...