Sidenote: google "Rage" images sometime. There's a hot mess in an 80's bikini that I pretty much adore (almost as much as a good Chuck Norris poster...)
Here's the thing: I'm not a terribly patient person.
Let's qualify that: I'm not a terribly patient person, professionally. The closest I've ever come to a "cat fight" started with some long gestating ire directed at a coworker particularly lacking a crazy little thing we call autonomy. After a year on the job she was still afraid of "breaking the rules" and trying anything new...eventually I'd had it. My blood pressure skyrocketed, my face got all sorts of unpleasant shades of red, my arms began flinging around wholly without my permission and I remember yelling...really, legitimately yelling (further sidenote: in a construction office full of men, being "that woman" that looses her cool and yells (complete with flailing arms and shrill pitch) is pretty much the workplace equivalent of a colonoscopy...sigh. I never want to be "that woman" again). I think the fact that I've spent the last ten years of my life certifiably loathing my job(s) has something to do with my simmering impatience. I don't love the work I do, so please, don't drag out the process.
Enuf digression. My point: it's "That Time of Year." YearEndInAnAccountingSoftwareCompanyWithAFierceDedicationToCustomerService time of year. If you will. The time of year when fear-mongers storm the phone lines afraid they've hosed things so royally the IRS will send storm troopers to strike them down unless we we send our magical accounting software pixie dust through the phone lines.
The time of the year when my phone's headset becomes my singular fashion accessory (and when my hair has a headset-shaped ridge on top for 5 weeks straight).
The time of year when you realize you've answered more panicked client phone calls in one hour than you answer during most weeks in the month of July.
The time of year when I come up with a mantra like "It pays the bills....it pays the bills....it pays the bills...." and chant that victoriously each time I end a phone call and muffle an exhasperated snicker over the fact that we trust our fine nation's construction industry finances to folks that are woefully underqualified to do their jobs and rely on technical support lines to reconcile their general ledgers for them.
The time of year when I get out to the car (having narrowly survived another day without telling anyone what I really think of their "stupid" question - and yes, there IS such a thing) and immediately turn my Lady Gaga cd up to medically dangerous volumes and "sing" about riding disco sticks because...well....because it's fun. And after a day when I field 32 different questions about the merit of 4-up versus plain paper W2 printing, "sick beats" are about all I can handle.
It's difficult to maintain a civil, polite, engaging (never patronizing), ever-friendly tone while stifling my desire to tell most of these people where to shove sharp objects. And I am not a professionally patient person.
Thankfully: it's a short week. I'm 25% done with thinly veiled rage.
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