On The Planet Corporate: Survival Through Fiction
I found myself sitting in the HR department of one of the most famous companies in America. My ice queen soon to be boss wanted me and I knew it. After all, I had graduated from a pseudo impressive university and I looked really good in my Ann Klein suit. Problem was, I'd never worked a day in Corporate America and I had just turned fifty. Hard to teach an old dog new tricks but the bills were piling up and the only place my freedom loving artistic spirit had gotten me was down and out in New York City. I was offered the job; mostly because the actress in me conjured up Sigourney Weaver in Working Girl, a dash of Faye Dunaway in Network and I performed a nifty little improv using the shrewd and sassy elegance of Judy Holiday and Melanie Griffith as rather impressive role models.
My stunning performance worked and there I was, embraced by my new corporate family and occasionally loaned back out to the rest of society, my pet Pomeranian and my old disco buddies. After filling the pages of my gratitude journal for at least six months, and thanking the universe for this rather prestigious position, the honeymoon wore off and I became increasingly shell shocked. My co-workers were very strange indeed. I didn't feel that they were family at all, but that's what having a job is called on the Planet Corporate: family. Oh, they like putting us in teams too.
Teams connote competition and a great rah, rah spirit. In my old world they called it "opening night." Here they call it "making goal." As you can imagine, I was confused. I had a hard time understanding these people. They talked about a lot of things that didn't really interest me. When they weren’t obsessing on how low the sales numbers were, they were obsessing on the New York Jets, what to nuke for lunch and whether or not the Bachelor would chose the blonde or the tenacious little redhead. I was beginning to feel quite miserable. Why, the first time I heard I had a direct report I thought I was going to be writing up a presentation on how I was going to direct the Christmas play. The first time I was called a subordinate, I almost wept aloud.
Jeez, if I wanted to be subordinate to anyone I would have married my ex. Then I was told I was getting a performance review. Well, finally something to look forward to. I was happy at last. Surely, my calculated persona as a prisoner in pin stripes was impressive. Why, I learned to click down the hallowed halls of this very famous corporation in three inch heels. I found the perfect skirt length and kept my nails conservatively French tipped. I even talked numbers all day, like they were as important as season tickets to the Met, and I pretended to be in a constant state of urgency so my boss would think I was absolutely killing myself to make my sales goal. Well, you could have knocked me over in a breath when I discovered that a performance review was actually based on whether or not I was selling anything. Disappointingly, my review was moderate to cold.
I felt that I wanted to crawl under a rock and not emerge until I figured out how I could learn to care how much money my company made off the ninety percent of my life it was taking. My self esteem had taken an affront. Here I thought my humanity was more important. So be it. I licked my wounds and went on like a good soldier. These people were expanding my sales goal wider than a middle age waist line, but still, I persisted. I plodded along, cursing my fate and trying to figure out if I'd enjoy driving a cab for a living. Finally, some good news from the Planet of the Corporate: We were all going on a retreat. I joyously ran out to buy a yoga mat, karma sutra oil to share with colleagues, hot pink sweatpants and new Addidas. I couldn't want to chant with my corporate family.
I was ecstatic. But then, the bomb fell. I was both surprised and appalled. My corporate family was thrusting me into a hotel room with another adult, asking me to share the spit and spittle of sleep, the intimacy of bodily woes and the loss of privacy on my frequent calls home to the dog walker. That did it. I rebelled. I wore the new Addidas and the hot pink sweats to their all day meetings on how to sell more stuff. I chanted enthusiastically during the power lunch and used some little book on cheese they gave me as a place mat for the very gooey award night dinner. Wouldn't you know it, I was written up.
Vintage Books Articles
Vintage Books Books