I have reached an age at which a few of my friends now have jobs that involve being responsible for someone else. Whether it’s the intern, their own assistant or a team, it is not uncommon to hear them discuss those in their charge.
This is an inevitable step on the career ladder. In the modern workplace, if you want to move through the ranks you will be asked at some point to manage someone. But this does not bode well for me. I am simply not management material. The commandments of the playground (“thou shalt not grass on others”) remain embedded in me. I am so racked with self-doubt that any review of an underperforming employee would surely result in me sacking myself. I am suspicious of those who pine for authority.
In fact, so strong are my delusions of being a young Spartacus that I once wrote to a manager to defend an intern who’d been penalised for sneaking lunchtime naps in the toilets. “Who are we to tell this young man how to spend his own time,” I implored. “Instead of discipline, we should help him with the personal issues causing such exhaustion.” (It turned out that the “personal issue” was a new Mario Kart release, so despite his occupation of the toilets it was very much me caught with my trousers down.)
Sometimes, I find myself guiltily wondering if it’s wrong to lack the desire to lead: is it lazy or ungrateful? I think this despite recognising the absurdity of a job well done being rewarded by being promoted out of it: a senior teacher teaches less, or a coder in leadership spends her time mainly in meetings. But I’ve learned that it is fine to say: “This life is enough, I have what I need.” Besides, we all become managers in the end, of our children, or to older parents. Better to enjoy being carefree while it lasts.
