Wednesday's Child Is Woeful

It's a tough day, my Wednesdays. The weekly meeting. I dread it. I go in armed to the gills with good intentions to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes I'm successful. It doesn't matter, though, because somehow the boss lady will find a way to shoot me down, and invariably I leave feeling like a two inch piece of crud. She doesn't like me, the boss lady. Perhaps it's some atavistic thing; maybe my pheromones clash with hers. More likely, and this too is atavistic, I'm too much of an alpha being for her. Only one strong dog allowed, and she is most definitely it. The rest of us must fall in line, chorus our yelps in concert with hers and bare our necks from time to time to show submission. I would do it if I could, but with me, it's just not believable. One of my colleagues told me she's deliberately played dumb, so the the boss lady won't pick on her. That's smart--but somehow it's beyond the range of my dramatic skills.

And/or -- I don't want to. One would think that in the business we're in, authenticity would be prized. One would think that, wouldn't one.

Tonight I came home, squeezed my dog, and had a glass of wine. Wine definitely helps. My chin is not scraping the floor, as it has in weeks gone by. I don't expect to be immobilized for the next 36 hours by a deep, dark depression--as I have been in weeks gone by.

Tomorrow morning I'll get up and decide how to deal with this situation. Suck it up? Cry uncle? What would you do?