The Unspoken Rules
The chirping of birds and the warm glow of dawn awaken me. Ugh—another Monday morning as I hit snooze on my alarm clock. I bought this fancy alarm clock hoping it would make waking up easier, but news flash: it doesn’t. Every morning, I still groan and hit snooze. I see all these posts about people’s morning routines and how they just hop out of bed. Nope. I’m guessing these are the same unicorns who go to bed, fall asleep instantly, and don’t have random thoughts at 3 AM.
When I finally get up, I stretch; my neck is stiff and my shoulders are sore. The constant clenching of my jaw and turtling of my shoulders make this morning stretch critical as I try to loosen my muscles. I keep muscle creams in my bag to help with the pain. With a sigh, I try to figure out what to wear, digging through the laundry basket of clean clothes until I find a pair of jeans and a sweater. Then comes the search for underwear, a bra, and—ideally—two matching socks. Laundry is my arch nemesis; I manage to wash it and get it into baskets but putting it away feels like a pipe dream. Occasionally, I have the energy to fold everything and actually get it into drawers. I consider myself lucky that the dress code is casual, so I don’t also have the stress of dealing with clothing that wrinkles.
I take a quick shower and get dressed, preparing myself for another workday. Mornings are never easy for me, and Mondays tend to be the most difficult. I manage to arrive at work just in time for my 8 a.m. project status meeting—by far the worst part of my week, but at least it’s over early. To make matters worse, the meeting is led by Alice, whose “fake nice” demeanor is always unsettling. Her tone of voice is jarring and today is no exception. My attempt at small talk backfires when I try to joke about not being a morning person until I’ve had my caffeine. Alice responds by glaring at me and asking, “When are you ever happy?” The comment stings, but Morgan quickly jumps in, saying, “Happy hour, of course.” I laugh and agree that 5 p.m. is definitely a happy time, relieved that Morgan’s intervention diffused the situation.
Once the meeting ends, I decide to stand up for myself and ask Alice what she meant by her comment. She rolls her eyes and says, “I was just joking, but seriously, do you even want to be here?” I press for clarification, and she continues, “Well, you tend to wear your noise-cancelling headphones when you work and don’t just visit with us.” I take a deep breath and explain, “As I mentioned before, noises are distracting, so I wear my headphones.” I then ask, “Are you bothered by Charlie and Drew? They also wear noise-cancelling headphones and are less social than I am.” Alice responds, “Well, that’s just different.” Observing the apparent double standard, I reply calmly, “It seems there may be a double standard at play,” and then exit the conversation without awaiting further comment.
I don’t understand why Alice seems to dislike me, but it’s a common struggle when trying to relate to other women at work. The first challenge is not having kids or a spouse, which makes it hard to join in conversations that revolve around family and children. I often hear side comments suggesting that I don’t understand what it means to be tired or stressed, as though my experiences are somehow less valid or I’m not good enough.
I’m not sure what I expected my career to look like at this stage of life. Most of my days are spent in meetings, updating spreadsheets, or creating technical documents. Back in high school, I excelled at math and science, so it was clear I’d pursue a STEM field. The idea of dealing with anything medical was out—I couldn’t stomach the thought—and teaching didn’t appeal to me either. Engineering seemed the most logical choice, so I became an Industrial Engineer. Do I use my degree? Not really, but I don’t mind my job for the most part; the pay is decent and I get along with most of my coworkers.
Despite my technical background, I wish I could do something more creative—if not at work, then at least on the side. I’ve always been artistic; in school, I dabbled in various forms, but photography was my main focus. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve explored other creative outlets, like experimenting with wood and mixed materials. I enjoy creating and showing the world from a different perspective, transforming basic materials into something thought-provoking.
A few years ago, I considered exhibiting some of my work, but nothing came of it. Throughout my upbringing, I was taught that my life should be productive and serve a practical purpose—art didn’t fit into that narrative. When I mentioned the idea of exhibiting my wood art, my mom dismissed it, saying, “Who would buy anything from you?” Her lack of support made me doubt myself. If my own mother doesn’t think I’m good enough, who else would?
