That's enough now, Sally

As soon as my boss, we'll call her Lady Tremaine (aka Cinderella's stepmother), sharply said, "Close the door," I knew I was about to get a beating. "You're acting like a nine year old! You're so passive! You're acting like a victim!" She had unloaded on me like this before, but calling me a nine year old was certainly over the top. At that point what could I possibly say? If I apologized, I would be passive. If I cried, I would be acting like a nine year old. That left me with only one option: Sit there, slack jawed. If anyone was acting like a nine year old, it was Lady Tremaine, for sure. Not me. Her mockery and abuse reminded me of a child who, after inhaling two pieces of birthday cake and pouring a few Pixy Stix down her throat, starts hyperactively running in circles at her birthday party and screaming at all the other frightened children. That child inevitably wears herself out, gets sick from the heightened physical activity, and throws up a sugary mess down her party dress. That child, totally unaware that she has embarrassed herself and that she has just come crashing down from her high, then feels completely better and is all smiles for the rest of the party. However, all the other children in attendance no longer want to play with that spoiled, fussy girl and only concede to a game of tag because they’re afraid that she’ll start screaming like a banshee again. “OK, we’ll play with you, Sally—you crazy fuck.”

Lady Tremaine is a powerful lady. She is the CEO of her own empire and is highly respected (respected by people who don’t work with her as intimately as I do). Much like the Devil who wears Prada, Lady Tremaine is a leader in her field with a huge following, a woman who is also feared and greatly bothered by those who work to keep her on the lofty pedestal on which she resides. Luckily, my work with her is fairly short-term and our project will be at press in a few months. I’ll then be able to say my adieus and focus on my first love: teaching. I teach elementary school in a public school in Manhattan. I love it. I get to play God all day, dictating when my little community members get to eat, pee, talk, sit, play. Yes, I get orchestrate a bustling micro-polis all day long and I do so with a huge helping of blood, sweat, and tears.

So when Lady Tremaine asked me to shut the door to usher in my own beat-down, you can imagine how ironic that was. A nine year old, huh? I was acting like a nine year old? She was the one acting like a spoiled little brat. In my book, acting like a nine year old is super cool—unless you’re that kid at the party. I love nine year olds so much that I’ve chosen to spend everyday with them. Lady T obviously meant this to be an insult, but I’ve decided to take it as a compliment. Save the nine year old who gets high on sugar at birthday parties, most nine year olds I know are quite cool. And we have a lot in common with each other, those kiddies and I. We like listening to stories: they during our daily read aloud and I during Story Slams at the Moth. We love our respective snack times: they munching on pretzels and I, sipping red wine (after work, of course). We also both adore Compliment Circle: all of us passing compliments to the people sitting next to us in the circle, where I'm the only one tearing up. Every. Friday. Can’t help myself. Those kids and I, we have loads in common and I love that. And if that makes me a nine year old, so be it. But I’ll tell you what I certainly am not. I am not passive, just ask the Amish boys on bikes. And I am not a victim, even though Lady T certainly victimized me that day. I am always able to gather my bearings, soldier on, and tell a damn good story about it the next day over dirty martinis.