Teetering on the edge of madness.

Is it just me . . . or is the ability to look up people’s noses during conversations the number one cause of orthopedic problems in business woman today?

Those of us who are members of Club V.D. (vertically disadvantaged) understand that there is little we can do to improve on this situation. The ‘80’s are a distant memory along with faking a few extra inches of height by using mouse, a teasing comb, and a quart of shellac.

High heels are mandatory. It’s hard to intimidate a business rival when you’re staring into the lasagna stain on his tie. And I’m talking about a good 3 inch heel, here. No wimpy kitten heels or flats allowed, and wearing wedgies is cheating; only real women wear spikes!

Perhaps you are thinking, "So, what's the big deal?" Perhaps you are thinking, "That doesn't seem so bad." Perhaps you are a Neanderthal, loafer-wearing, nincompoor of the male persuasion! But I digress . . .

For the uninitiatied, here is a short introduction to the art of wearing high heels:

Before work:

• One by one, you slide your feet into the shoes. You rise, hold your head high and automatically pull in your stomach. Life is good!
• Now add 10 lbs of accessories: oversized purse (with PDA, cell phone, makeup kit, emergency rations), a coat, umbrella, and briefcase with laptop, etc.
  
• Then comes the commute. Traveling by car can be pleasant unless you then have to walk several blocks to the office: Pain tolerance is automatically reduced by several hours Taking a bus is always an adventure given the vehicles penchant for abrupt stops. Standing in the aisle, you’ll give a terrific impression of a palsied stork!

At work:

• Finally! You get to sit down at your desk. You do some quick ankle rotations and feel the tension go out of your toes. So far, so good.
• You spend the next three hours doing wind-sprints between your co-workers desks, assorted conference rooms, and the coffee machine.
• Lunchtime: Hunger has been deadened by extreme discomfort and you’re now reduced to playing games with your shoes. You repeatedly slip them on and off, only airing out each foot long enough to ensure that it doesn’t suddenly swell up to a size 22.

After work:

• Pain tolerance is no longer a part of your vocabulary as you trudge home with your toes numb, your calves in agony and your lower back threatening to rebel and seize up like a rusty spring.
• Upon entering your residence you immediately kick off the offending hunks of leather and unceremoniously plunk both feet into the toilet vowing to never wear high heels again . . .
  
• Until tomorrow anyway, where you will once more slide your feet into the depths of certain misery thereby proving, without a shadow of a doubt, that height isn’t the only thing members of Club V.D. are short on.

Out with the old?

Is it just me . . . or is deleting emails a scary experience fraught with visions of unseen repercussions? I'm one of those pathetic individuals who loathe deleting a single email even if it's the original message of a week long exchange. I currently have over 7,000 messages languishing in my systems 'sent' folder (and my husband calls me an introvert!)

Some might consider this affliction a baseless paranoia. Not so! My affliction is a defensive mechanism developed as the result of working with an agency owner who considers archiving a religious pursuit. Being that this individual views all interactions with upper management as ‘Us vs. Them’, she has developed an almost pathological need to be ‘right’. It's like dealing with a obstinate adolescent who’s decided that her parents have the combined skill-set of a cumquat!

There’s nothing worse than having to communicate with an anal-retentive who is always trying to get the upper hand. I’ve known lawyers with less need to provide evidence. Even after making a brief social call simply to ask “So, how are the kids?” I’ll receive a multi-paragraph email stating “This is to confirm that on March 22^nd between the times of 8:50 am and 8:53 am, I said that the kids are fine”. This email will be copied to half of the civilized world and then saved for future reference.

Ms. Anal Retentive’s superlative historian tendencies do fail at times, especially if there’s a dispute over the facts, or if it’s suspected that either she or one of her people are (gasp!) wrong. She goes from Ms. A.R. to Ms. I.R. (Incomplete Recall). History often becomes abridged as attempts are made to prove a point.

What usually happens is that I’m forwarded an email; something archaic from many years ago. Ms. A.R./I.R already has the advantage since my middle-manager memory has atrophied to the size of a cashew due to having to juggle more responsibilities than an obsessive-compulsive clown! The result is that I’m left with a research session worthy of an entire bottle of Visine in order to confirm whether or not this was the final email in the string or only the fifth of a series of a hundred and twenty two!

This responsibility falls entirely on my slumped and sagging shoulders given that my manager has the opposite problem; he simply cannot let an email linger in his inbox. Deletions are his specialty. He spends the entire workday with his index finger poised mere centimeters above the upper right hand corner of his keyboard, trembling with eager anticipation at the prospect of eradicating an errant SPAM message or an email from the company president (same difference).

I met some young people the other day that only use email for recreational purposes like talking with friends and family, or ordering stuff online. What a lovely concept. To them email interactions like mine are a psychosis worthy of its own telethon!