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384 pages, Hardcover
Published September 12, 2023

I’m now doing facial isometrics, trying to retract my eyeballs far enough into their sockets to keep the tears from being bumped off the ledge onto my face.
I can't allow myself to outright sob the way my body wants, but I do let the tears sort of push themselves up and through my eyes like water from a backed-up drain.
In each of those places I’d had the momentary thrill of knowing my life had expanded a little more.
People who don’t make any mistakes probably aren’t making enough decisions.
I want the world to stay wide, and if that means reinventing myself again, sign me up.
And what is a job anyway, if not a chance to ruin your life?
They don't just agree; they violently agree. They're blocking and tackling and focused on the inputs and not getting distracted by orthogonal matters. Going paleo has been huge for them, and tequila is allowed. Can they just play devil's advocate for a second? Can they just pressure test your idea? Can they just push back on that a little? These last three are them saying you are wrong. Sometimes they say it in an Amazon way and sometimes in a man way, though already the difference is getting pretty hard to discern.
It's an election year, so time for a new round of "Women: Are They People, or Just Host Bodies?" This year, we are blessed with the bonus topic of what constitutes "legitimate rape," as a congressman from Missouri has assured us that the bodies of legitimately raped women will automatically prevent a fertilized egg from implanting. Elsewhere, Rush Limbaugh calls the law student and contraception activist Sandra Fluke a slut who has to take lots and lots of birth control pills because everyone knows the pill is something you pop each time you fuck, sort of like taking Lactaid before an ice-cream social. I had no idea at eighteen that my basic bodily autonomy would still be in jeopardy at forty-two. No one tells you it will never, ever stop.
You can't outrun it. You will always be a deviation, an alien, a guest worker, an uneasily transplanted organ. You might be tolerated, even beloved and respected, but you will never be a citizen, and the problem isn't how you look or talk or act. The problem is that there is no right way to be a woman. In their eyes you will always be a bit too female or not quite female enough, and trying to walk the tightrope will kill you. The silver lining: if you can't outrun your gender, you might as well live as you please. It may be the freedom of the truly fucked, but I suggest you take it.
Have Backbone; Disagree and Commit Leadership Principle: "Leaders are obligated to respectfully challenge decisions when they disagree, even when doing so is uncomfortable or exhausting. Leaders have conviction and are tenacious. They do not compromise for the sake of social cohesion. Once a decision is determined, they commit wholly." In theory, this leads to healthy conflict and better ideas. In practice, it tends to be used as cover by loud, rude men who talk before they think and weaponized against anyone enculturated not to act like a loud, rude man.
But also, I don't really know how to disagree. My family had two settings: Everything Is Fine, and Screaming Fights with Lasting Damage. There was no tradition of lively debate around the dinner table. So when I see two Amazonians bluntly countering each other’s ideas in a meeting, it’s like watching an exotic martial art that I don't yet have the muscle to practice, even if had the guts. Also, when a bunch of men are arguing, or even just talking, it’s hard to break in. My habit at AMG was to wait for a pause, but there are so few pauses here; conversations are more of a round, like "Michael, Row the Boat Ashore," the men's voices overlapping and echoing until I'm no longer sure my point is relevant or what it was in the first place.
I’m distracted by memories of all the performance reviews where I was told I lacked a backbone, that I was too nice, that I should disagree more freely. Throughout the hour I'm hyperconscious of every inflection in my voice and movement of my lips. Even reaching for my coffee cup, I try to seem warm and nonchalant. I make inquisitive and encouraging faces at everyone who speaks, and I minimize my own talking. If I don't get my footing on the tightrope between spineless and spiny, I'll plummet to earth. Maybe the fall would at least be a break from the way my toes keep cramping around the rope. Maybe the landing would be less bloody than I imagine. I can't quite bring myself to risk finding out, but I'm thinking about it.
I wake up afraid of the day, just because it’s there and I can’t stop it from happening. “The only way out is through,” people say, but they’re talking about heartache or grief, not Tuesday.
You try so hard to be good at things you don't actually want to do. You never ask yourself if maybe you should just stop doing them.
I should tell her I’m talking from some place so far away that nothing I say has meaning, but it’s too hard to explain.
I've been shot from a cannon to the bottom of the sea and have to make my way back to the surface, mostly unassisted, and weighted down by salt and seaweed, by figuring out which starfish and shells and old cannonballs I need and how they fit together. It's not that I'm being hazed. My co-workers are kind and helpful. But they’re above the surface, so to reach one, I have to stretch my arm up blindly and hope I'm grabbing at the right person and that they have time to come hang with me under the sea. And even when they do, I can tell from their eyes that they don't really have time, that every minute spent orienting me is one where something else might be blowing up just out of sight.
Because Mitch gets to throw toddler fits while I'm not allowed to show emotion at all, I am angry but I think it's shame. Every morning I feel a little sick when I get on the elevator, as though I ate just a bite of something rotten, so I am angry but I think it's IBS. I have to put my worst employee in the bottom 10 percent to make the curve, even though she's still pretty good, so I am angry but I think it's softness. My best employee is a quivering wreck and my praise goes right through her, her eyes darting in mistrust until I'm half convinced I am lying to her, and I am angry but I think it's lack of compassion. I'm about to join the demographic known as "over forty," and I am angry but I think it's body dysmorphia. All the money is starting to seem normal and not like winning a prize every day, and I am angry but I think it's ingratitude. John gripes that it's distracting to have cleaners in the house and I read it as him saying I should be doing the cleaning myself, and my office is noisy and crowded all day long and John works in an empty house for all but the six hours a month our cleaners visit, so I am angry but I think it's lack of focus. Whole Foods has just four lanes open at rush hour, and the lines back up into the aisles, and I am angry but I think it's failure to be in the moment.