Written 1/26/11
Is there a time limit for road rage?
Apparently, not in Miami and definitely not for me.
See, living in BFE and being cut off from the rest of the world isn’t enough, noooo, I get to be pissed the fuck off in the process of even trying to reach out to the rest of the world.
And let’s not even get into how I just happened to be driving to my first day of work on the same day of the funeral procession for the police officers recently killed the line of duty. While I’m all for respecting people who routinely put their lives on the line for their city, I do protest having a shitload of cops on the road at rush hour since, once people see a cop car, they slow down, which backs up traffic, which inevitably pisses me off.
Awesome sauce.
So Monday was my first day “on the job”…or as “on the job” as I could be sitting in a room with 20 other people for orientation.
I hate orientation, not necessarily just for my job, but in general: orientation has always felt like one of those horribly necessary evils that you find yourself wanting to shoot in the head if it had an actual face. Maybe it’s because I am in possession of the attention span of a gerbil on a speedball, but I’ve always felt that orientation to, well, anything is like having to sit still and have someone re-teach me the alphabet: so mind-numbingly boring that I’d consider chewing my arm off to amuse myself.
Later, Cue texted me: “How was orientation”
To which I replied: “I was able to die, be reincarnated, and aged 22.5 years in the time that shit took.”
It was truly a horrible experience, only lessened in awfulness by the fun woman from Human Resources who singled me out for walking in late after the lunch break and insisted that I dance my way back to my seat.
Yay?
Anyway, we covered the basics in the morning, and by the time lunch came around I decided that this was going to be the slowest week of my life. The worst of it was when a woman came to talk to us about being politically-correct in the workplace, citing a few examples that definitely felt like overkill and bordering on being anal…like a hemorrhoid (and just as painful to have to sit through). It wasn’t so much the topic (even though I feel like not pointing and laughing at a Muslim woman’s niqab or a mentally handicapped individual are a given and don’t really need to be stressed) but how she presented it. She spoke in this really soft, low, almost condescending tone that reminded me of a professor I made brave feats to avoid whenever I had to be on her clinical rotation. Granted, the speaker was a lot less horrifying, but she was still pretty boring.
In retrospect, I recall that I spent the better part of Sunday night talking to friends, including Ricky and Gio (who shared a wang spaceship with me), which probably contributed to me feeling like I just wanted to crawl into a ball and just sleep forever.
Through the rest of the speakers (and there were many) I comforted myself with the idea that I was getting paid to be bored for this week. So I’ll live.
Just… wanting to chew my arm off all the while…or at least for the rest of the week.
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