It's the Little Choices - Part Eight (Commission)

I'm a little baby, yes indeed… Here is my ba-ba, it's all I need… Watch me tip it over, drink it down… just TIP! it over and drink it down…

Thirsty. So thirsty. Gotta drink, drink. Drink. So good in my mouth…

And then I wake up… to find that tucked securely in my mouth, working rhythmically in and out with embarrassing fervor, is my new pink pacifier.

***

Of course I take it out as soon as I am fully awake. Liz doesn't mind, of course – in fact, she seems to find my little anti-nail-biting device positively adorable. But, well… after that strange dream I was having about a music box and a nursery rhyme and actually drinking milk by sucking on a literal baby bottle… Hey, I guess it's only natural to feel self-conscious, isn't it? I'm not really a baby, after all, no matter what my weird dreams might lead one to believe.

Though that doesn't stop the annoyingly chipper memory of that dreamy tune from tinkling incessantly through my head the rest of the morning.

It's Barb, ironically enough, who finally drives it out of my mind. Yeah, Barb: the sourpuss who twitted me about my shoes awhile back. I should have known that she'd bother me about my hair, honestly. And if I'd have been thinking more rationally at the hairdresser's, I wouldn't have ever gone for these bangs and pigtails. Though they are pretty cute…

"What the heck has gotten into you lately?" she gripes shortly before lunch, shuffling by my counter with a stack of reports in her hands and an unusually dark scowl on her botoxed face. "God, Fiona – you look like you're ready for kindergarten! Why don't you dress like a responsible adult for a change?" She sniffs and motions impatiently at my pigtails while I stare, open-mouthed at her audacity. "Like, what is this hairdo about, huh? You playing Little Bo Peep in a play or something?"

"I- I- uh, I- No- I'm sorry-" I'm stuttering, face hot with mortification, fingers clutching nervously at the pen in my hands. "It's just- I- I thought it looked pretty-" The pulse is hammering in my ears, and I can already feel the stinging prick of ears at my eyelids. No, don't cry! Don't give her the satisfaction…

But of course I do cry that night. Bawl my eyes out, actually. You know, the ugly kind of crying – a veritable storm that sweeps over me, leaving behind a snotty nose and hiccups and a massive damp patch on Liz's shoulder.

"She's a sour-ass bitch, that's what she is," Liz consoles, rubbing my back and holding her handkerchief against my nose. "Blow, honey." I do, and tremblingly gulp back another rogue hiccup. "I- I know. But why… why does she have to be so mean? Like, what did I ever do…" "Nothing, honey," Liz affirms, her voice strong and reassuring as a warm hug. "You've done nothing wrong, okay? She's simply harassing you for your personal appearance. And that's just as wrong – and worth prosecuting – as racist remarks or sexual harassment."

I shake my head in sudden alarm at the mention of prosecuting. "No, no. I can't make trouble. I need this job, Liz, really-" "Honey, shh," she tells me, and in her dark eyes I see glowing mingled compassion and anger. "No one's going to drag you into court, okay? And I'm not going to force you into doing anything. But listen: you're a strong, capable, smart young woman. You deserve a safe place to work as much as anyone else. And I just don't want to see you simply putting up with it and giving in, all right? I know you can stand up for yourself… and so if you ask me, I think you really should think about filing a confidential complaint."

A complaint?! God, I don't even have the guts to look a person in the face when they cut in front of me in a checkout line! But I don't have the energy to argue right now. Emotionally exhausted as I am, all I can do is nod meekly and lay my head once more upon Liz's shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut and wondering whether it might not all go away if I just stay here long enough. Safe and warm on Liz's lap…

***

Of course that's not exactly how things work. But somehow or other, three weeks later finds me here in a radically different position.

It's shocking, really – even to Liz – just how effective that formal complaint has been. I'd made up my mind that weekend after Barb's harassment; I couldn't put up with it any longer. I needed to assert myself, or it was only going to get worse. And so, with Liz's emotional support, I'd sat down and typed, with trembling fingers, a formal letter explaining exactly what I'd been dealing with. Yes, management might want proof, Liz agreed. Yes, they might want to verify things with coworkers who would have been witnesses. But all we could do was take the first step, and then see how things evolved from there…

Strangely enough, management didn't even need anything more from me. Apparently they'd had other complaints, or Barb had been bugging them for a raise, or something. All I really know for certain is that barely two weeks afterward, she was gone: transferred to another branch in the city. And in her place as branch manager now is… none other than Manny! Yes, my good friend Manny, whose sweet personality and supportive demeanor make him everything I could want in a supervisor. Not to mention his flamboyant clothes, which some days put even my pastel sneakers to shame for sheer irreverent color and style.

Yeah, this is definitely an improvement.

It was all necessary, I realize now as I walk out the door and head to my car with a bounce in my step and a flounce of my frizzing pigtails. Sure, filing that complaint against Barb had sucked. But somehow, it was exactly what I needed… even if I hadn't known it at the time.

The thing is, I've been worried about myself lately: worried about who I am, and what I'm doing with my life, and whether I'm ever going to be good enough a partner for Liz. Honestly it's hard sometimes, especially when I think about how hard she works, and how much money she contributes to our budget, and how strong and self-assured she is. It's hard not to feel… inadequate. Pathetic. Useless. Like I'm letting her down, or taking a free ride, or not pulling my weight.

And I guess the new hair and my childish games and stuff – to say nothing of my new pacifier – haven't exactly helped my self-esteem.

But now things look different. "Though she be but little, she is fierce," Liz had laughingly quoted once I'd finished drafting my letter – and I kind of get it now. Sure, I may like cute things, and I may hate confrontation, and God knows I might even be headed home right this minute to a dinner of chicken nuggies and mac 'n cheese and an evening of gaming with my passie in my mouth. But I'm strong, too. I know what I deserve in life. And I'm not going to put up with anything less.

Now, then. Just as soon as this traffic moves along a bit further, I'll be basically home! I wonder how Liz's day has been? And whether we still have enough ketchup for those chicken nuggies?

Da-da da-da da DA, DA da DA… Just TIP! me o-ver, pour me out…

Dang it, that silly song's stuck in my head again!