Saturday morning I'm in the ladies of the company in NYC where Jason works. There's a woman at one of the sinks and we exchange hellos. Then she turns to me and asks brightly, "Are you one of the new document processing hires?" She's friendly, but there's a hint of condescension there; not the sort of tone you'd use with a 5-year-old, but maybe a 15-year-old.
Is it because I'm wearing jeans? The fact that I'm brushing my teeth? I spend the next several minutes obsessing over what about me, exactly, screams Document Processing Hire--HIRE, not coordinator or executive or even PERSON--when I'm standing in the law firm of Ginormous and McFancyton and would hope to most logically be mistaken for, oh I don't know, a lawyer? Preferably one who slams her first on a table and screams at no one in particular, "Damn it! Bring me the McKenzie file!"
It occurred to me to say "I'm the new partner" but instead I went with "Oh, no, my friend works here, I'm just visiting." What a wasted opportunity.
Beyond all that, document processing hires work on Saturday mornings? Yeah, thanks, not applying for that job.
A few minutes later, a guy from the mailroom hands me a package and asks me to put it on a table for him. In the time it took for him to pause in the doorway, ask me, and point out the location of the table, he could've walked the three steps to the table himself, put the package down, then jumped on top and serenaded me with Eternal Flame.
Data entry on the weekends and transporting packages across a room... I guess my work skills are better appreciated in Beantown.