Today I woke up early, showered, and curled my hair. This is a revolution in personal hygiene for someone who of late hasn’t been dressing until 4:30pm. The occasion is an appointment with a former colleague to talk about a possible job opportunity with his company. His company. He’s a man. Do you know how exciting this possibly is? After my last hen hell experience I swore I’d never work in an all-woman organization again unless we were dressed as cowgirls and performing in a vaudeville circus.
The thing about women in my experience is that many of them are afraid of expressing themselves directly for fear of (being understood? being disliked?)…. Meow meow. I’d rather be hit by a plate in the head than whispered about behind my back. And as the leader of this all-woman organization, the problem was compounded by the issue of supervising women 2 decades my senior. I’ll leave the rest to your active imaginations, but you get the picture.
I love women. Some of my best friends are women. Truly. I just don’t want to work with them. They make me talk about feelings. They tell me about their toe surgery and uncaring husbands. They ask me if I think they’ve gained weight and cry in my office.
Give me the linear freedom of rational discourse on strategy and spreadsheets and budgets. Give me something clean and clear and understandable. Give me work with men!