T is for Trash bag
Many people have labelled me a trash bag. This is either because they have seen me out during times of absolute exhaustion, and the two or three wines I have had have taken on the same effect as a couple of bottles or because when I rocked up to work looking like something the cat dragged in, some people (particularly in advertising) immediately assumed I’d had a big night. Many days it was just easier to say I’d had a big night as opposed to go into depth about a sleep issue. And working in advertising it’s a lot cooler to say that yes, I do indeed like to party, as opposed to the fact that went to bed at 9 and was still awake at 3.
One time in particular I was harassed so badly by my boss at one of the big advertising agencies, because he heard from one of his drinking mates, that I was a trash bag. As much as I tried to convince him otherwise and the fact I have a young son and even if I wanted to, can hardly go out partying all night, he did not seem to believe me. He believed the gossip and there was no convincing him otherwise. He gave me a warning that my trash bag antics would not be welcomed. From that day forth he found fault in whatever I did. It was never about my work. In fact when he found out I was not indeed much of a party goer, he persecuted me for being boring and not fitting in. I was eventually forced out of the job.
The mother’s at my son’s school have over the years also avoided me as they too have assumed that my dark glasses, scraggy hair and scruffy outfits are a sign that I am in fact a trash bag. My poor son is one of the popular kids yet for those years the parents decided on the party list he was often left out. I’m not sure if he’s invited to the parties now because I finally look “respectable” now that I sleep or because the older children become the more they make the decisions as to who gets invited and who doesn’t.
