The ‘Snooki’ syndrome
I came to an awful conclusion last week, that the office archetype I call “Snooki” exists everywhere.
No, I don’t mean the “Jersey Shore” chick herself. But my “Snooki Syndrome” is named after someone I once knew who wore her hair that way. She had some good qualities, but I was mostly only acquainted with the ones that escalated my anxiety.
And yes, I’m an asshole. Rather than stand up to these people, I cope by giving them nicknames. Because, you know, a girl’s gotta feel like she’s got some modicum of control over a situation!
You know the type — that person who is just so no-nonsense … tells you straight out that she doesn’t care a whit about you or what makes you YOU … doesn’t necessarily think she’s smarter than everyone else so much as she just IS because she has experience none of y’all don’t and therefore she is automagically above you … and you decide that your No. 1 job responsibility is keeping that person happy or, at least, doing what you can to stay off her radar.
Not pointing fingers. *hands in pockets* Just, observing a very familiar and long-running pattern.
I got to thinking about all these yahoos on Capitol Hill, who whip out their dicks on Twitter or in men’s rooms or what the fuck ever. They take the easy way out by resigning. (Thank you, Anthony Weiner, for giving up your seat and the voters replacing you with a REPUBLICAN in the most Democratic district in the nation’s history. YOU FUCKING SUCK.)
But all these goofballs make a comeback. Maybe they’re not restored to their former glory, but they get their extra 15 minutes on the fame clock when the rest of us don’t get our FIRST 15. (Unless it’s pounds. Got those!)
I guess what I’m saying-but-not is that I don’t want to play anymore. I want to make up my own rules. Everybody else’s rules suck.
I’m sick of Snooki incarnations everywhere. I’m sick of that violent burning pit in my stomach that every meeting is just an opportunity for public excoriation. (Had my first 10 years ago; haven’t had my last, I’m sure.) That dodging the bullet one day or week doesn’t mean you’re wonderful or worthy but, rather, you didn’t fuck up enough to be on the radar this time but HOO BOY you can bet your sweet poohnani that your time is a-comin’!
I want to be pushed to be better. There are just ways not to do it. It is said that the typical Gemini will hold a grudge forever. While there is a grain of truth to this, I would prefer to call it “guarding the flanks.” Cross me once, I will be nice to you, but I will NEVER let my guard down again.
I would never wish to be embroiled in a Washington-type scandal. But at least it would be DIFFERENT, you know? I don’t do well with stress and it’d probably kill me. But I’d like to see one of those scandalized actually put their heads down and WORK THROUGH IT. It’s too easy to say, “Gee, I did something stupid. I apologize to my spouse. I am entering rehab. And I am going to give up my career because I was dumb enough to take a picture of my dick and put it on the Internet.”
Maybe I’m just jealous. Maybe I just wish I had an excuse to light the whole thing on fire and walk away from the smoking pile of uneasiness and try ANYTHING else.
Goodbye career as we know it. Certainly, goodbye roach-infested Amityville. (That’s my next rent check, by the way. Mom designed me a whole series to piss off the Evil Landlady!) Goodbye everything that isn’t working. Which, is JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING.
I’m not unhappy; more just struggling with illusions that things would be different. I don’t think I’ve ever taken the easy way out. Is that the option I’ve been missing all these years?
I don’t know what the secret is to finally arriving at a different (happy) ending. If you know it, do share.