1984

I've really been enjoying my third year teaching thus far, but lately it seems all the fun ends the moment the bell rings and I check my work e-mail.

Lately, we've all been getting bombarded with e-mails concerning new policies, procedures, and other 1984 Orwellian-style control mechanisms. Every single meeting we've had as a complete staff has been about keeping us in check, rather than what we as a school can offer the students. A recent school initiative now requires teachers to "sign out" when we leave the building to grab lunch during our own lunch period. The day we receive a ball-and-chain free blackberry, I'm going to quit.

I left investment banking because the job owned me and made me feel like there was always an eye in the sky. If my blackberry buzzed at two in the morning and I didn't respond, my cell phone would ring. If I didn't pick up, I'd get another ten e-mails. Eventually, I would get in deep shit with my deal team and then my staffer would have to hear about it. That usually meant I would start getting staffed on shitty pitches, which were basically accounts that required a lot of busy work and never amounted to any type of live deal. As an analyst, you always wanted to be on a live deal: otherwise you weren't gaining any experience. You weren't top tier.

In my second year of investment banking, I was staffed on a live deal that was taking forever to close. The company we represented was trying to sell itself in a down market. There weren't too many buyers in the market. As a result, there was a lot of work being generated for absolutely no reason. We were their bitches, and they knew we would do anything for that advisory fee.

I was on a conference call with my associate, the client's lawyers, and the client's CFO. As the designated monkey of the group, I was diligently taking notes while wondering how long I could stay on the call without saying anything. Usually I could get by without uttering a single word, which was great because the coffee I had just had began to knock on my body's doors. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I had to take a shit. Fast.

I had the advantage of being on this call from my desk, rather than being in a conference room with my colleagues. I was already on mute, so I shot a quick e-mail to my associate telling her I was stepping away from my desk for a moment, and ran to the bathroom blackberry in pocket.

As the weight loss process got underway, my blackberry buzzed: 

Where are you? Need you to be on this. Will need your notes.

 It was my associate. Jesus Christ, leave me alone. I told her I'd be back very soon.

I'm working on two things at once, this should the only thing you're doing.

Her again. This was getting really annoying and quite frankly awkward, though it was never surprising to walk into the bathroom and hear someone typing away on their blackberry as they sat on the pot. My blackberry buzzed again.

I'm at your desk. Where are you?

I panicked. I couldn't risk her getting irritated at my me and giving me some bullshit work, so I was responded back with the only thing I could come up with:

I'm pooping. Coming out now.

I walked back to my desk and there she was, next to my chair reading her blackberry. Probably reading the very message I had just sent her. I tried to make as much eye contact as possible before she began talking about the conference call and next steps.

I'm twenty-six years old now, I don't think I need to tell anyone anymore when it's time to poop.