I swear to god, this job. I am working on a project that requires a very small bit of artistic ability, a very big tendency toward neatness, and a very high tolerance of tedium. I have to ink the floorplans of the place we’re building in different colors according to department, and then I have to label each department clearly. I like this task just fine–the long sessions of repetitive inking are quite soothing, actually. The problem is that everyone else seems to think so too.
Cries of "Oooooh, I wanna color tooooo" ring through the office, and before you know it, two more people are crowded around the drafting table with me, "helping." That’s annoying enough, as I don’t especially enjoy being pressed up against other people or waiting for an errant elbow to be moved before I can finish inking the HR department. Just an example.
The main reason why I can’t fully enjoy this is that I am about a million times neater than everyone else, or at least a million times more anal. (I take almost no joy in saying this: on the one hand I don’t think having nice writing is anything to brag about, but then on the other hand, I don’t think there’s any excuse not to write neatly. If a person has functioning hands and eyes, what’s the damned problem?) The person who asked me to do this very pointedly inquired first as to whether I had neat handwriting (I do) and then whisperingly showed me the work of another person on this task as an example of "what not to do." Fine, I thought; I will just be neat.
But that same messy person whose work my supervisor had shown me is still working on the project, still scribbling happily away. New recruits have joined forces, mimicking his hideous anti-aesthetic. If I were in charge, I would just tell these shiftless no-‘counts to stop with the damned chickenscratch already or I would have to cut them deep. I am not, however, in charge. Therefore I must continue to sit there and witness their general incompetence, my blood pressure rising with every scritch of pen against paper, all the while trying to dodge their flailing limbs. Gah. Time for lunch.