The Final Touch

There's nothing us semi-unemployed peons adore more than recognition. We crave it like the latest gadgets or vajazzling. Each mention of our name in newsletters, Team tabs on websites or on business cards is thrilling, an exhilaration short of mind boggling. When I took hold of my box of business cards it was akin to holding my first born (a feeling I'll have to imagine for the time being).

What brought me to this rather obviously conclusion was a coup. After two months of arguing, pleading, nagging and finally a few quietly shed tears I'm up on the Team page of our site. I had been nursing this puppy since infancy; the cradle's been rocked so hard I still have the bruises from holding on. I have ulcers from the stress, sleepless nights and under-eye circles the size of peaches to prove how hard I've been working. I deserved my picture and a blurb! I DID! It happened. And I almost cried I was so grateful.

I've gone through four years of college and prior to that four years of high school. Those horribly brain rendering years left me with little more than a desire to move on...so why am I clinging so hard to the recognition a single piece of card can afford? I've only been here a year; why the sudden craving?

Perhaps this is the onslaught of a years worth of friends parading their employment in front of my face; throwing business cards at me to prove how important they are. Like a piece of meat, I'm tenderized by the fact that someone cares enough about my work to make me an integeral part of their team. And it's something to wave in the face of nay-saying acquaintances who thought they were so cool because their name was tied to a corporation.

And inside my head I'm using my whole college-sized dictionary of useful, choice words to prove myself better. God Bless the American Dream.

Next thing to trump? Weddings.

...though for now I am willing to accept defeat. Kudos, Weddings, for being something this girl does not want to touch (at least for the next ten years).