I don’t know what it is, but I am several notches past my last nerve. I am having one of those days where when people so much as chirp at me, I have to fight to keep myself from biting their heads off or clawing holes in my palms with my nails. It started sometime last week. I think it’s the raging insincerity I encounter on a daily basis.
My day job, while I’m trying to support myself, is as a receptionist. I have tons of people who call in every day, and they happily ask how I’m doing, how my day’s going, all smiles and chirpy voices.
I can’t stand it.
They don’t mean it. They don’t really give a rat’s ass how my day is going. They don’t. If I were to tell them the honest truth, they would flounder, deflate, and get very confused. To them, they’re being friendly. To me, they’re continually beating me with a cactus. I can’t stand that version of friendliness, because there is absolutely nothing behind it. They are probably genuinely nice people, most of them. But when they call or stop in, they want what they want when they want it, and I am just the secretary. I’m a tool to be used, albeit one they feel they have to be nice to because I’m beneath them and because I hold the keys to the people in my office.
And it grates on me. I hate lying. I am a terrible liar, although I admit that I lie on a daily basis. I tell them I’m fine, tell them my day is going well, when in reality I just want to shred something with my fingernails. Maybe their face. I have to lie every day. When someone doesn’t want to speak with a caller, I have to lie. When they ask me to put 50 fliers in our mailboxes, I smile and lie.
It makes me sick. I hate doing it. People lie for so many reasons. To protect themselves from censure, to hide from criticism or ridicule, to try and get away with something. Sometimes we don’t know why we do it. I know why I do it. It’s my job. I have to lie. I have to perpetuate this insincere small talk.
I’m guilty of the other lies, as well. I have lied to protect myself, to keep information from people I feel will use it to do me ill, but I never want to do it. I never do.
Every day this goes on, I die a little.
When I write, I try for honesty. I try to think that I can truly say what I mean then. Writing is an outlet, a place of absolute authenticity, where I can just be my little self, and to hell with what anyone thinks.
I hope the day comes quickly where I can let honesty reign.