The Crossdresser's Workplace Phrasebook.

Part 3

I have found that from time to time my physical appearance has garnered the attention of work colleagues. These days the workplace is much more regulated than once it was. Dipping one's pen in the company ink is about as outdated as, well, the company having ink.

However, this yoga hardened body of mine appreciates the occasional lascivious glance sent its way. I admit this isn't very 'woke' of me, but then I am an old-fashioned kind of crossdressing gal. I don't do all this work on my body just so that no one notices. If. when I bend over to retrieve a dropped lace handkerchief. I don't get at least one guilty glance at my yoga pants then I am doing something very wrong.

All that said, I was somewhat surprised the other day by something that happened at the agency. I was preparing to move offices, as luck would have it. My recent promotion to Moral Officer requires me to have a category B7 office — which should include at least 30% of the windows to be south facing, thus eliminating the seasonal depression so familiar to all those losers who are B6 or below, on account of sunlight deprivation.

Indeed since it's been realised that the less natural light one experiences, the more likely one is to suffer depression, human resources departments the world over have had to re look at how offices are allocated to staff. It was, for example, suggested that staff might be incentivized to progress up the career ladder by offering certain departments more sunlight in their offices according to their contribution to corporate revenue. This is why computer departments are generally in the basement of office blocks, and marketing departments are invariably on the south or south west side of a building thus guaranteeing more daylight.

It was to be expected that our previous human resources manager should have misinterpreted this information. Somehow he managed to get it so muddled up in his head that he sent a memo out to all heads of department warning them that the company would in future be implementing a policy to punish poorly performing departments by reducing the amount of sunlight they'd be allowed access to, and this should be expected to induce mental deterioration and depression, and that this should serve as warning to anyone who might be slacking off at work. Needless to say, this did not have a positive effect. Staff suicides went up by 4% that year. I know this because I put an anonymous note in the company suggestion box suggesting we might have the creative department make a sign for the foyer saying '25 days without a staff suicide', to be updated daily by the front office reception staff.

The suggestion was not taken up. I made a mental note to remember to revisit this idea. Perhaps I should suggest to Brenda, our latest human resources director that as the partners were so concerned about staff welfare they may look favorably on such a suggestion. Particularly coming from her. I smiled to myself at this thought.

Yes, the previous human resources manager, Colin, was quite eccentric. He had tattoos all over is body, including a map of Canada over his heart. While it could be said he was an overbearing bigoted bully, at least you always knew where you were with him.

As luck would have it, this week I had Max, my neighbour's son, job shadowing. This is a practice where a hopeful student or intern hangs out with you at work to see what you do all day, in the hope that they can learn how you landed such a cushy job with the idea of emulating your good fortune. In return they have to buy all meals and drinks, and be designated driver, and pay to fill up your company car. At least that was how I explained the arrangement to Max, who in his haste to attach himself to me seemed to take this all in his stride.

As I was in the process of moving into the new office it seemed only right that while I go out for a sushi lunch with a couple of clients, Max should prepare my office for the move. I have some lovely plants in the office and made sure they were all packed nicely in a big chest, so they would survive the move.

"Would you like me to drill your box?" Asked Max, as I was stretching over the desk, reaching to unplug a phone.

"I'm sorry?" I said, a little perplexed. Max has always had what might be described as a healthy curiosity about my body, but this seemed uncharacteristically forward.

"Drill your box? Holes," he said.

I looked very puzzled at him.

"You know, so the plants get more air."

I realised he was talking about the big box I was using to move the plants. Better air flow would indeed help them.

"Max, you are such a good boy. You go right ahead and drill what ever you need to," I told him.

Max's communications skills were either very advanced or very naïve. There it was again. That word — communications. That was what was wrong with this company. They didn't know how to communicate. It was as though half of the people in the building were speaking an entirely different language.

As I walked over to the south west side of the building and sat behind my new desk, overlooking the bay, I took out a notepad and wrote deliberately at the head of the paper, "The Workplace Phrase Book".

I looked at the title. It seemed right.