In my days as a high-school activity whore, hour-long meetings on whether the spirit club should sell Pepsi or Coke (or in some extremely experimental instances, both) at an upcoming fundraiser versed me in two concepts that go hand-in-hand: bullshit and bureaucracy. By the end of my enthusiastic four-year legacy as activity director or student representative in the most useless of organizations, questioning the importance of a discussion on club T-shirt designs was equivalent to stabbing a dagger in my heart and screaming, ‘You don’t matter!’
Simply put, the endless red tape and paperwork that made my life complicated also gave it meaning. Of course after some personal distance from the system in college, I realized my energy could be used more constructively (i.e. getting efficiently trashed on weekends). But even after resisting memberships to the most prolific poster-making clubs, I can’t help but be jealous of the superficial license bureaucracy offers in the professional workplace.
Consider, for instance the cashier at the 10-item-or-less aisle in your local Ralphs supermarket. Historically, I’ve always tried to test my limits with these employees, filling a basket full of, get this: 15 or more items and strolling into line like I own the place. Usually I get by with the raise of an eyebrow or a polite reminder to use the correct aisle next time. But one memorable visit, I shoved well over 10 items into my cart, skipped the long lines and unloaded my groceries onto the express conveyor belt aisle to meet a curt worker with a Russian accent.
After she scanned my 10th item, she stopped and asked me if I’d counted my groceries. I apologized and lied that I hadn’t noticed, anxious for her to finish up the transaction. But before I could swipe my debit card she pressed a register button, cancelled my sale and told me to get in another line. I was so shocked by her firm 10 item stance that I didn’t even argue. As I silently gathered my items and took a position in a normal line, I couldn’t help but be impressed with her overwhelming authority.
In the end it probably would’ve been more efficient if she’d let me slide by with a surplus of groceries, but the fact that she took her job’s responsibilities so seriously made me respect her more. If she couldn’t tell 11 item customers to get out of her line, then what could she do? It’s about the small victories.
I’m all for a little personal self
-worth, whether it comes from rejecting a misbehaving customer or telling someone to fill out a written complaint, but when the righteous attitudes of the organized professional world start bleeding into social events, say, the sexy dance party that my housemates and I threw last week, things stop being impressive and start getting annoying.
Originally, our idea for the party was simple and sweet: we would have music and people would dance. But after some private side conversations within the household, an official meeting was called four days before the event. As we all sat around our dinner table to discuss logistics, one housemate took out a piece of paper and began taking minutes. Another immediately expressed concern that we would have noise complaints and recommended that we cover our walls with sleeping bags and blankets. Someone else was worried our house environment wasn’t danceable and suggested we remedy this problem by purchasing decorations. Twenty minutes into a conversation on streamers and strobe lights, I realized that I had been transplanted back to the lengthy conversations that characterized my high school extra-curricular activities. As responsibilities mounted to an unreasonable level, I announced that my main concern was sufficient booze and walked upstairs.
As the date of the party approached, my fellow party planners took more and more liberties. First I came home to a find my dining room wall covered in cellophane. Next, my kitchen light was replaced with a black light. But’ when I saw an entire bag of glitter resting on the counter, waiting to be shoved into our apartment’s every crevice, I finally said something.
‘What on Earth,’ I asked my over-enthused housemate, ‘are you going to do with that?’
He said he was going to spread it everywhere and as self-appointed decorator he would take full responsibilities for his actions. I couldn’t help but think of some other self-appointed position that might give me the authority to throw the bag of glitter in the garbage.
Although our planning became an unnecessary source of tension in the days leading up to the event, everyone’s efforts fell into place on the big night. My dance-concerned housemates had moved our furniture onto our patio, the decorator had set out candy necklaces on the counter beside mounds of glitter and, most importantly, I was well on my way to being extremely drunk. For an evening we forgot our official positions and just, well, danced.
It wasn’t until we all woke up the next morning to an apartment covered in empty beer cans and multicolored confetti that it dawned on us: no matter how many positions we’d assigned ourselves in the planning process or how many conversations we’d had centered on our guests’ well-being, the inevitable truth was we’d planned a party, people got drunk and trashed our house and all five of us were going to have to clean up the mess.
No appointed positions or meeting minutes were going to get us out of that.