You Know You’re a Corporate Shill When …

Last night I didn’t get home from work until 10:30 p.m. This only happens once a quarter, when the earnings release needs to be run through with a fine toothed comb, so it’s more exciting and novel (with free pizza) than it is a pain in the ass. Plus, the person with whom I have to work with on this late night is one of my favorite people at work, so it was no big deal. It could be a whole lot worse.

I’m starting to feel the wear of not only working for a giant company with obvious corporate bloat, but also just a job that I’ve done for six months now. Much like my dating history, I have a tolerance point that, once reached, signals drastic change. For the former, it’s about a year. For the latter, it’s six months.

I’m obviously becoming more mature, as I have not freaked out and found a new sig.oth. or a new job. (I think the relative sanity of the boyfriend does directly influence the job tolerance.)

That doesn’t mean that I’m not tempted. (I’m mostly talking about jobs, here.) Living in the city during the summer means kickball league and movies in the park. I don’t know what living in the suburbs is going to turn out like. I do know that there’s a pool at my apartment complex, I live next door to a go-cart track and mini golf course, and I live 6 minutes from Six Flags. That doesn’t sound bad in theory, but I don’t know how it will turn out.

There are still 2 months before Allison Darling Lyman comes to spend the summer at Camp Bucket of Sunshine. (It’s a boot camp for souls who have lived in Iowa City too long and have chronic disenchantment. I think my sister is signing up for a two-week course.)

Anyway, back to my identity working at a large company – I realized today that as much as I’ve learned from working here, I know I’ll never wholly identify with those who make this their career. I realized this as I used the copy room staple remover to pry out the staples that attached the ‘$.90’ tag to my thrift store belt.