It’s rare that I bring office issues to the blog (mostly because I know full-well that any employer who lets me write about my junk and drinking purely for the sake of the funny workplace hangover is an employer worth holding on to), but in this case, I fear I’m left with no other option. Over the past six weeks, I have somehow gone from being the young, fun, randomly hungover on Wednesdays coworker through whom the settled, mature folk could vicariously live while they schedule daycare pick-ups and plan date nights five weeks in advance, to being the lone Diane Keaton in a world of Blake Livelys.
Unbeknownst to me, my boss randomly went and hired a slew of young, sassy bitches (aren’t I enough??) who are putting me to shame on a daily basis, practically shoving me into middle age with their designer handbags, nonfat lattés and abbreviations that I don’t understand.
THAT’S NOT A REAL CONVERSATION.
I mean…is it? If it is and I’m just out of touch, you’d tell me right?
Oh – and for any of you who think being anything related to Diane Keaton was a good thing? Get the fuck off my blog. Diane Keaton is terrible in every way imaginable and I’m not even saying that in a overdramatic blogger way where if we were to meet some day I’d probably let it all slide and fall in love with her.
I legitimately cannot handle any part of Diane Keaton, from the glasses to the highlights to the fact that she’s been fifty fucking years old for the past thirty years, I pretty much want to start every day of my life by punching her in the face and some day when I’m rich, famous, and ruler of the free world, I will do exactly that. Watch your ass, Keaton. Your time riding The First Wives Club wave has ended.
…I’ll wait a minute for the few people going to brag about having met her or being related to her to slink away and watch Because I Said So…
Now, my funny water-cooler stories about convincing the newf that I wasn’t drunk even though I was, or that I am not to blame for the fact that our stone patio seems to be paper-machéd with phyllo pastry (true story…and I am totally to blame) are being trumped by these girls whose Chanel heels and C-cups seem to attract entire varsity teams of college boys with bar tabs and the scandals that follow. Combined with their daily morning fashion shows that immediately rob me of all self-confidence, it feels like Sex and the City is punching me in the nuts every day.
The worst part of it all is that I actually really like them and find myself battling the urge to become part of their fashionable crew – that is, to regress right back to my early twenties where I could drop $300 on a single item of clothing, chase shots of whiskey with more shots of whiskey, and dance until four in the morning before drunk-dialing the man of the moment because I’m too lazy to walk all the way back to my own apartment. Not that that ever happened on a regular basis over the course of several years.