I know it might sound minor or kind of stupid to be depressed about a suit, but my workplace blues got the better of me this week when my boss insisted I wear a business suit to a meeting on Monday.
You know, I barely fit into the suit, first of all, and I most certainly don’t fit into corporate America. I have a job there, yes, and collect my paycheck from a private, for-profit business. But I’m a dyke with bipolar disorder, a mental illness awareness activist and author, and a progressive political activist. My life is not my job, and what I do for approximately nine hours a day is indeed just a job and not my chosen career.
So, when my boss told me to “wear the suit” I began getting depressed. My depression grew over the weekend as I tried to find girly shoes with heels high enough for the pants of the suit not to scrape the floor, but which I could also comfortably walk in (impossible, women’s dress shoes are a total health hazard!). When I tried on the suit as a trial run on Sunday, it felt heavy, uncomfortable, close to crippling, and so NOT-ME that I fell into a funk that I haven’t been able to get out of.
I didn’t wear the suit after all, just dress pants and a nice sweater. I figure if my boss wants someone to fit the suit she can hire that person. If she wants a good staffer, she can deal with my fashion choices.
I’m still blue, workplace depression is no joke, but my sister did make me laugh about an old episode of “The Brady Bunch” TV series where a “talent agent signs Greg to become a rock star named ‘Johnny Bravo.’ Greg let’s his new fame get to his head, until he discovers that he was only signed because he ‘fit the suit.’”
And that’s exactly how I feel: I’m only in corporate America because I fill a need (not the suit) as a capitalist-corporate worker. It’s really depressing that my day job sucks the life force out of my minute-by-minute.
I’d so much rather be writing!