Bitch Confessions

Sometimes I can be - as in I am allowed to be - a bitch.

I work with a very self-centered doctor. Self-centered to the extent that he sees no problem running 1 1/2 or 2 hours late to see patients. Self-centered to the point that he demanded the office manager take down all the clocks in the lobby and in patient rooms so they wouldn't know how late he's running. He is a short man, with disconcertingly small hands, and - appropriately - he throws tantrums on a Napoleanic scale. In his social interactions, he functions at approximately toddler-level: cute and cuddly just up to the point where he doesn't get what he wants, then melting into a screeching, spitting puddle for his nearest caretaker to clean up. Because that's what his staff do - caretake. They pad his world to insulate him from whatever might push him tantrum-ward (it works maybe 50% of the time); they run interference with patients ("Of course, the doctor is here by now."); they agree to take down all the clocks!

Right around the first of December, I decided that I didn't need to pander to this guy any longer. My tail will not wag to please him; my tongue will not loll as I pant my obeisance. I don't like the job anyway. What's the worst that could happen? I might get fired? Oh no.

This non-pandering is not an easy task for two reasons:

• First, I am a people-pleaser, so this is an unnatural response from me. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt; I go out of my way to put others at ease; I never ever have clever, cutting comebacks because that would be mean. (Or, more truthfully, I only think of them after hours of agonizing.)
• Second, for whatever reason, the good doctor does not subject me to his fits of infantility. Daily, I overhear him treating his staff like so much chattel and my jaw clenches, but then he's on his best behavior around me.

Despite the struggle against my true nature, finally, an opportunity: two days before Christmas, he came into my office to tell me what education points to revisit with the next patient. As he's looking out my window, he suddenly says, "I just had a weird vision of myself hanging from one of those trees." "Oh," I sputtered. "Well," I faltered. And the rally: "I guess that's one sort of Christmas decoration." His jaw dropped. He laughed sharply, only once. He walked out of my office.

Sweet, snarky triumph #1.