She told me I needed to circulate. I told her to piss off. Well, no, I didn’t tell her that. I wanted to tell her that. I strenuously thought it. I sent it out into the greater realm of intention and possibilities. But what I said was “Okay.”

She’s my boss. I need the job. And I was raised to not be impolite, regardless of any rudeness imposed upon me. Otherwise, in my dreams I will see my mother’s consternation and hear my father’s lecturing disapproval.

That, and a self-inflicted need to say a thousand Hail Marys. And then an additional thousand Hail Marys for resenting the first thousand. And then, of course, I will remember in the middle of the night that I don’t go to church anymore and that no number of Hail Marys is going to save me. So I’ll have to get up, have a drink – alcohol or warm milk, and watch sitcoms from two decades ago.

So I kept my words polite and my thoughts to myself. Why did I perceive such an affront? I think it was the presumption that I wouldn’t circulate without being told. Do I appear shy? Timorous? Unsure of myself? Reluctant with others? Or, do I appear to need to be put in my place?

Plus, she’s younger than me. The bitch.