I think I don't like working for women.
Wait, let me rephrase that: I do not like working for women.
It isn't them; it's me. My formative years (as the phrase goes) implanted and reinforced in me the idea that women are suddenly, frighteningly, threateningly changeable and therefore untrustworthy. Subordinate to a female, I often feel like Wile E. Coyote off the cliff and standing in midair about to fall into the chasm before he knew he was headed for difficulty.
I have worked for many . . . many . . . women and the only exception to this rule [of mine, be clear about that] was a forty-something restaurant manager. She acted consistently; she made sense to me. She didn't have tantrums. She didn't solicit or tell secrets. She was even-tempered, spoke in well-modulated tones not hung with icicles, not lacy with blue flame. She was friendly without wanting to be...
.I really liked working for her. To be comfortable at work, all I had to do was . . . my job.
I do not mean to say that women are not good managers of time, of tasks, of money, of other people.
As I said, it isn't them; it's me and my reactions. Since I am such a wackamo, dragging along all this female-bosses-are-scary baggage, no doubt I misinterpret or overinterpret what female superiors say and do to me.
Maybe a sudden scream across the room, "STOP SIGHING!" should not make me afraid to breathe, lest the noise of air traveling along my nasal passages disturb others' concentration. Perhaps repeated inquiries as to my age and how many years I have in the retirement system would less often make me say "Hm," if issued from a male fifteen years my junior.
I swear that if I ever change jobs, I will do my very best to avoid working for another woman.
I said that twelve years ago, and I haven't managed it yet.