We All Need a Hero

Returning to the workplace after such a long hiatus, you see things with fresh eyes. My heart isn’t hardened to The Way It Is yet. I see people struggling to balance the responsibilities of family and work; people who are afraid they aren’t getting it right; people who hurt. And it really bothers me. These people need a hero. Maybe not the kind with the cape, but at the very least, they need someone who can fly, you know?  Someone who can show them it’s okay to be wrong sometimes. It’s okay to fall down and skin a knee. It’s okay to fail.

In my office, I am the resident One Who Has Failed.

There is a large sign hanging over my desk. It reads: Ms Knowitall. Underneath that sign hangs another, smaller sign with the word Logic with a circle and a line drawn through it in the universal language that means ‘Hell No’. And beneath those two signs is a third, even smaller – a picture of a bat wearing eyeglasses. The fourth says Bullshit Taker Miracle Maker. And last but not least, my name. Not one of these names or signs were created by me. They have all been assigned by coworkers.

People coming into my office for the first time stare, but don’t often ask for an explanation and I don’t often offer one. It has been an evolution of identity and I leave it there to remind me I wear many hats, and not one of them is professional. I am not so vain as to think there’s a single thing I do, one single task I perform that cannot be performed by someone else. Someone younger. Someone smarter. Someone cheaper. Someone more experienced. Someone (let’s face it, I’m in a man’s industry) with a penis.

I lose keys. I am voraciously sarcastic. I have pranked every single person in the office to the power of 10. I am perimenopausal so I am either cold or hot but never allowed to touch the thermostat. I purchased a voodoo doll, clearly labeled, and hung it by the neck until dead on the wall over my boss’s desk.  Frankly, I’m not sure why I’m still employed.

But I am. And so long as I am, I will pack my Supergirl lunch box, don my hardhat and steel toes, and show up with a smile. Because there’s a job to do. There’s a problem to solve. There’s a team that is missing its court jester.

See, I used to think my job in life was to Be a Christian and Change the World for Christ. Then I thought it was to be a Mom and change my kids for Christ.  Then I thought maybe I ought to just work on changing me for Christ.  

Two years in Vegas and I realized something. I think I’m just supposed to be Me.

I mean, if Jesus wanted to change me, he would’ve done it himself, right? Before I was born and before I caught my clothes on fire during a meeting with the NRCS folks, before my static-cling red panties fell out of the bottom of my jeans in public, before I renamed that poor subcontractor “Hymen” on - God help me - every document known to mankind.

This whole stint in Sin City has been an identity crisis in reverse for me. Instead of concentrating on all the things I need to change about myself and others, maybe I ought to take a lesson from the bat with the eyeglasses… Bats don’t use their eyes to fly. They use the magical, mystical powers God gave them to navigate the dark night.

My magical mystical power is the Power of Laughter. Great Big Belly Jiggling Laughter. Nehemiah said it best. “The Joy of the Lord is your strength.” And you know what? I’m perfectly okay with that.

Because when you look down and see your panties hanging out where your feet go, you can either laugh or you can cry.

And I am done crying.