Effective upon receipt of this message, I will begin implementing my new zero tolerance sexism in the workplace policy. All traditionally recognized “feminine” traits inherent in my personality will be disbanded immediately. I will not be kind, I will not be patient, I will not be gentle nor empathetic; and most of all, I will not be responsive. Nada.
This cubicle is gonna be a fuckin’ citadel by the time I’m done with it.
While this may be disheartening to many of you, you must understand the true obstacle that sexism presents for many women in the workforce. It’s not something you can just fight through; it’s often something that just ends up muscling women out of their respective fields completely. Which is why the new policy will guarantee my transformation into an aloof, antagonistic, gruff, and violent raging turd-hole. Who doesn’t respond to emails. Nope, not anymore. The wall is going up. I’ve been hoarding sturdy reams of paper for months now, and I can guarantee you this motherfucker is going to be airtight.
Too often I have noticed how the more approachable aspects of my personality have been turned and weaponized against me. Colleagues have assumed that because I am cooperative I am not competitive; because I am tolerant I am not assertive; because someone says something to me that I will say something back. No, Bradley, I don’t have a goddamn Android charger in my bag. Want to tell me how your weekend was? Sorry, I’m too busy defecating into the 12-cup coffee pot that’s not the keystone of my comprehensive sanitation program.
While there’s nothing inherently feminine about kindness and nothing inherently masculine about rationality or decisiveness, gender bias is about as real as it gets. Women get passed over in interviews, passed over at the conference table, and passed over during building inspections because I have a sealant blended from whiteout and hot water and the iron will to die in this bitch. Try me, I’m not afraid to pry off the floorboards with my bare hands and descend into whatever dog groomer booking start-up in running on the fourth floor. This staple gun is automatic.
This is my end game, and I’m the Peyton Manning of the end game. I don’t need to make accurate or precise sports references anymore, my guy, because I have a sense of feckless, unwarranted confidence instead. Do I look logical, stable, and competent taking this Lysol disinfectant spray sponge bath, Dennis??
Turn the air conditioning up to freezing. Call the building manager. Send a “did you get my email” text. I don’t care. I will dismantle my Wi-Fi, build a nest out of staples and corporate swag, and subsist on the single bag of stale, jalapeno popper flavored pretzels that HR once tried to pass off as a “perk” until the Board of Directors pulls my cold, masculine-coded body into a Buffalo Wild Wings for some after-work brews and fist bumps.
I’m moments away from securing the final ream now, so this is goodnight. Au revoir, my fellow tax accountants. I don’t owe you shit. But please remember to continue liking, sharing, and commenting all my personal posts. That’s different.