Have you ever wondered what it feels like to be a bug?  What do they see through their multi-faceted eyes?  I have kaleidoscope eyes and watch people through my provincial, paned glass windows, but feel like a stranger outside looking in.

Those I am closest to never get closer than the cold, sleek glass that distorts their view of who or what I am.  I am invisible and I begin to feel it.  The shield of glass, at times is smudged, glazed, dirty, cracked or broken, so I can't be seen, but there I lurk.  Retinal refractions provide a feathery bounce and some sensible information filters in softening my reality.  I enjoy the kaleidoscope view from my short-lived vantage point.

No, I’m not a spider lazing in a silky web tucked in the recesses of a room.  But, I am gaining on strangeness with every tic of the second hand.  I should say, every flap from the minutes on the digital, since second hands are passé.

I am a woman who wanes toward the end of life and is forced one step back with every step forward, but surviving.  I used to refer to myself as a mushroom, because I am kept in the dark all the time, but I reevaluated.  Mushrooms actually grow in the dark, so I couldn't be one of those.

In my perpetual corner, however literally light, it is still dark, and even I have yet to determine what or who I truly am.  Nothing comes to mind.  What could I be?  The ground under my feet keeps falling away and I am left with a feeling of strange.

Thirty-six years as a secretary and eighteen year-olds make more.  My first job was with the noble endeavors of United Way and it began at two dollars an hour.  I know times have changed, but I'm growing strange gracefully, at least, I think so. 

Secretary – ing, at least, is a consistent uphill harangue making calls to lawyers, accountants, banks, utility companies to request needed changes, but no no answers come and everything remains unchanged.  I find it odd that slow progress, if any occurs, but paychecks still generate.  Am I the only one frustrated by incomplete projects and lack of closure?  I needed my boss to glue himself to the extension phone, but he had no answers to things like:

“What is your account number?�

“How about your social security number?�

Or the when’s, the where’s and the whys.  But he was the one they wanted.  Nothing could be done without his noble voice.  I needed a tape recording, but knowing he wouldn’t take the time to talk to one of those, it was hopeless.  I never learned to dub voices.  I began to question the meaning, need and good of having a secretary.  So many doors slammed in my face, I was surprised my face didn't look like a Pug.  And, no I won’t get a dog, especially not one of those.

Word to the wise; don't assume the position unless you fully comprehend required duties and title meanings.  For instance, S E C R E T A R Y actually means:

Surly

Elementary

Crumb

Reaching

Every

Tart

And

Rude

Yakker

Which, by the way, is another secretary.  I’m glad being a secretary has become passé, at least titles changed, but continue on being careful of any word mixed with Assistant, as noted below.  A call to action for analysts of the word A D M I N I S T R A T I V E and E X E C U T I V E might be in order.

I tried the title of A G E N T for a while, to meet my boss's insurance obligations.  A G E N T means:

Always

Giving

Every

Number

Twice

That didn't help, they still wanted him.

He wanted me to call myself his A S S I S T A N T.  But, when I analyzed the word, I found it meant:

Always

Seldom

Solving

Inconsistent

Sales

The

Answer

Never

Trumps

I’ve never like playing cards anyway, so that title didn’t fly.

Nothing can ever be counted on.  Even counting on your hands with your fingers is passé.  I’ve stopped using the title of secretary on my income tax forms.  Last year I put down S T R A N G E, meaning:

Strongly

Trying

Rules

And

Never

Getting

Every

answer, or, if you like,

Strongly

Talking

Rude

And

Nasty

Girl

Et al.

So what are waning women to do if they aren’t corporate execs and entrepreneurs?  One year my tax return noted under occupation, I was a B U G.

Better

Under

Ground.

That year I wanted more boxes to fill out, because I considered B R A T.

Bugged

Rattled

And

Tea-totaled. 

Eventually, I became a W R I T E R, and so can you.

With

Research

Interesting

Tales

Eventually

Rise

So Long.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR