Good Grooming

When I was younger and worse at planning, my dad used to use the phrase, "A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part" with a certain degree of frequency. It's something I hated to hear, but I now loooove to think. I think this phrase when my bosses fail to take into consideration things that I think are fairly logical. I think this phrase when I am given large projects with unbelievably soon due dates, and when my boss piles work onto my desk at the very end of the day. I say that I think this phrase because I am not yet in the position to say it. The way things are going, however, I may someday be in that position. And then I will say those delicious words with pleasure and a maniacal cackle.

OK, no I won't. I may go my entire life only saying this to any future children I may have. But I still stand by my assertion that I may someday be a position of higher authority. Why's that, you ask? Well, I think I'm being groomed for middle management. Yes, that's right. My parents must be so proud.

My suspicion was aroused for the first time during my latest performance review. First, I got a nice, performance-based pay raise. My manager went on about what great work I do and how much I contribute to the company. My first response was, "Awesome! I'm going to take half of my raise as PTO!" My second thought was, "Hey, wait a minute...I don't think I contribute that much." Almost immediately after my performance review, an eerie though dawned on me: Oh, shit, they're grooming me for middle management! Yes, their praise and their offer of more money are, I believe, a way to keep me in the company, doing their bidding. My boss said things like, "I'll be focusing more on school in the next few months and will be looking to hand off some of my responsibilities," and, "I think you have a lot of promise. Someone told me that when I first started." Oh, shit! Is it wrong that I immediately imagined throwing my ergonomically-correct office chair out the window, jumping out, and running as far away as my office-life-atrophied legs could carry me?

You see, this is just a job for me, and in that sense, it is perfect. I don't worry too much about anything that happens during the day and I rarely, if ever, think of work when I'm not there. It is sometimes acutely stressful, but never chronically so, to do my job. It is trivial, monotonous, and the only part I truly enjoy, besides punching out for the day, is the rare interaction I have with patients when I call to offer scheduling assistance. I've gotten to the desperate point of having a racing pulse when I can find someone the perfect appointment. It is the part of my job I enjoy, and a very, very small part of the job as a whole.

I do a lot of paperwork. I mean, a ton. I have one of those stupid, plastic paper-organizers above my desk, and a lot of my day involves shuffling various stacks of stupid paper around into different piles and then filing them into different file cabinets. I hate paperwork. I think I was born with a gene that gives me an aversion to paperwork and organization. This job is the antithesis of what I should be doing, and it is so out of character for me that it kind of embarrasses me.

For the moment, things are steady--I've been given the responsibility of training the new girl (the one who replaced the co-worker who was smart enough to get out before all of her soul was sucked out). My guard is up, my hackles are raised, my senses keen. I'll be on the lookout for insincere praise, large shifts of responsibility, and extra money in my paycheck. I won't get sucked in. I won't get sucked in. I won't get sucked in...