Someone I know through work has developed an annoying habit of writing “Fixit” as a single word in emails. There are things beyond fixit, which is a sad truth that he cannot comprehend, in his haste to arrive at immediate and shiny demonstrables that don’t necessarily carry over from one to the next. I suppose it is nice that he has claimed a word for his malaise. It does make referring to him easier.
I had not thought I’d be a part of the engineering tragedy, where constant wars need to be fought with managers who can’t quite understand why impossible doesn’t come with a covariance on it. On one side, there is the incredible need to please, the need to say ‘yes, yes, yes’ from a company culture where hardwork and pleasing your superiors are necessary to climb the social ladder. On the other side, there is a reawakening sense of self, slowly returning after long and unhappy years of being stifled by warped notions of obligations. I had forgotten to take into account how much self there had been, at one point.
Fixit doesn’t quite know what to do with me. He tries incentives that don’t really work, grasps at straws that don’t have relevance to either of us, and asks/demands/orders/pleads with varying levels of exhortation to fixit. He thinks I have gone all flower-child on him. It is not quite accurate, since I am neither drug-assisted nor as easy of spirit as the flower-children were. My spirit is probably an onion, and has little similarity in nature to flowers.
Most people, most Indians – he digs that hole deeper and deeper each time we have a discussion. If I were in that noble cluster, he would have had less to fret about. Unfortunately for us both, Fixit has had the misfortune of dealing with me in one of my more non-most moments.
At least, we can still wince together on the naming genius of the Kardashian-West family. He goes to fixit. I go to eat oysters.