Fluorescent Lights Should Be Illegal
And other (privileged) thoughts after leaving my couch
It finally happened: I got a real job. After over a year of applying for writing jobs I was absolutely qualified for, absolutely overqualified for, absolutely not qualified for, and shaking my fist at the sky that is my laptop screen because all my once side-hustle writing gigs are now assigned to AI companies that would require me to become AI, I was hired as a creative writing teacher.
“Teacher” is doing some heavy lifting here, but for all intents & purposes— and since it is my official title— I am now a creative writing teacher. Or at least spent this week training to be one.
And good god damn.
I was not prepared.
Not for teaching creative writing,
but for entering any semblance of
the corporate world.
For nearly fifteen years,
I’ve worked from home.
So, this past week has been illuminating.
Literally and figuratively.
First and foremost, FUCK florescent lighting. That shit should be illegal. Maybe it’s because I got away with posting videos from my naturally lit, sun-drenched living room with a touch of lip-gloss on Instagram while procrastinating for years, but holy fucking shit.
I’ve gotten ready every morning, leaving the house looking selfie-ready, no filter needed. Then I go into that school bathroom and I look like a cheap motel room: my tinted moisturizer is suddenly cracked plaster, my lipstick bleeds around the edges like an over-washed cotton blend comforter that should have been thrown out at least thirteen years ago, and the top of my head looks like a pile of frizzy pubes left on a toilet seat.
Maybe it’s the bathroom, I think, in the room I’ve been sequestered in to watch five days worth of videos with maybe thirty minutes of useful information. I pull out my iPhone, thinking maybe, just maybe, I won’t hate myself so much if I turn on this front-facing camera… nope. NOPE. TURN THAT SHIT OFF. THE PHONE YES BUT ALSO TURN THESE FUCKING LIGHTS OFF IMMEDIATELY.
OVERHEAD FLORESCENT LIGHTS
ARE THE ILLUMINATION OF SATAN.
I also now have to wash my clothes clothes. I realize how insane this sounds but I was in COVID attire a good five years before anyone decided to stylize their fucking sweatpants and that was all I ever wore. My actual clothes— the clothes I wore when I actually left the house— were always clean and hung in my closet because guess what? I ONLY HAD TO LEAVE THE HOUSE FOR EVENTS. I didn’t have to wear it everyday!
It’s been like a year since I even had to wear that shit! Suddenly (ok, for months) I’ve got like eighteen loads of laundry I need to do and god damn it, I had all the time in the fucking world to do it, and NOW I DO NOT!
Don’t even get me started on temperature control. For years I read articles about women being too cold in the workplace. I CAN ONLY WISH. I’m showing up in cardigans in an attempt to look professional and end up sitting in obtuse angles so my belly rolls don’t sweat through my shirts it’s so hot up in this muh!!!
I used to just sit on my couch
and write in my bra when it got too hot.
Now I gotta worry about kids
asking if I spilled my “NOT Stanley”
water bottle on myself.
(My water bottle is from Erewhon, but bless up they don’t know what that is and I hope they never do. Not in this economy.)
I have coworkers now too. Which I have very rarely had as a writer, even when working for the magazine because I worked with them remotely and only saw them in my clothes clothes like three times a year. They overall seemed to have hated me regardless, but now I’ve been sitting in a glass box watching videos while people are lowkey leering at me and darting their eyes in a race against meeting mine and I’m like, bro. Just look at me with your chest and meet me with some motherfuckin’ eye contact?! ALL I’M GONNA DO IS SAY HI. I’M NICE! HELL, I’LL GO ONE STEP FURTHER AND SAY I’M FUCKIN’ KIND! EVEN THOUGH MY PREVIOUS COWORKERS OR ALL THESE CAPS MAY MAKE ONE ASSUME OTHERWISE!
And all of this just makes me so anxious that I nearly jump when interacting with people and stumble all over my words (the one thing I’m hired for), sweat through the only bra I can find, turn beet red and inevitably go to the bathroom to see someone in the mirror that looks like they should be stumbling around a CVS as 2AM strung out on Red-Bulls.
I miss my couch. I can’t believe I was so lucky to be able to work from that cozy corner for as long as I did, and can’t believe I’m so ill-equipped to function in what is a completely normal work environment.
I am so used to being comfortable.
So used to feeling comfortable.
And I suppose that’s why maybe
this is the best thing
that could happen for me.
Because being uncomfortable
is often when someone
makes the most progress.
All collages © Marissa A. Ross. Do not reproduce without permission.
I’m at about a year and a half teaching in-person after being remote for years, and let me tell you. My chronically ill body is so over it 😅 those lights are a big no for me too
The prison industrial complex begins in k-12 with those ghastly lights!