It's certainly been a bit of a week or two. The problem with my back has recurred - the sciatica came back (though thankfully, it's subsiding now) and I am fairly sure it's not been helped by new furniture and the new layout. So, my boss arranged for a workstation assessment. And, surprisingly enough, my chair was flagged as a bit of a problem. Okay, so we just get a new chair, right?
Wrong. What happens next is that I end up having to go and see Occupational Health. I go there, thinking that it's actually about making sure that we get the right chair, that won't do any more damage to my back. TWENTY MINUTES I was in that ruddy office, before the chair was even mentioned. It appears that this was merely an opportunity to have a good old poke at the fat freak. Before I go any further, the occupational health people at my work are, in my own very humble opinion, clinically insane. And incapable of anything even remotely resembling tact.
I was asked if I'd lost weight because (and I quote) 'you don't look like you have.' Well, hello, it's lovely to see you too. There then followed a fairly prolonged harangue on how much better I'd feel, how her niece had lost so much weight and it had made such a difference (good for her, say I, but this has NOTHING to do with me) and how we all have our problems to deal with...blah..blah..blah. Then, after being asked if I wanted to be weighed (Hell no!), and on replying in the negative, being told that it wasn't optional because they would have to have the right weight for the chair.
I cannot put into words how utterly crap I felt. How pathetic and feeble and weak. I came out of the OH office feeling like I was a vile and useless creature. And all of this was coming from someone who's apparently a trained counsellor. Trained by whom? Attila the Hun, perhaps? I went back upstairs to my desk (via the loos where I sobbed for 10 minutes) and tried to calm myself down. I don't think it was one of my more productive afternoons.
What I can say is that my mam is an absolute star. She coped with her grown up daughter (who should know better) sobbing pathetically down the phone that night. And I mean really sobbing. The snotty, gulping sort of sobbing that you did when you were a kid and fell down and really hurt yourself. She managed to calm me down and was... well... just utterly fabulous.
My boss has also been fairly ace about this. He was really quite shocked when he found out (I ended up in tears again at my meeting with him the next day) and went down to tell the OH people that all he wanted was a chair for me. Just a chair. He didn't want a traumatised employee, who couldn't get through a day without crying.
Which brings me on to this week. I had to be measured, because they're going to have a chair made for me. So I went down again and I swear, it was like Laurel and Hardy had never died. Still, there were only two pointed remarks about my weight, so that was an improvement. Pfft.
And then on Thursday, I had to be measured again. Because the people at the company were a little 'concerned' about the figures they'd got. Thankfully the man who came to do this was lovely. (And rather hot too. *blush*) And frankly, I can understand why they'd be concerned at the figures considering who was doing the measuring. Bitter, me?
So, that's where we are right now. From what I understand, it's now a case of waiting for quotes and contracts to be signed and so on. Hopefully, I should have a new chair in a couple of weeks or so.
And do you know what the most ridiculous thing about this is? I specifically said to my boss(no, actually I virtually begged) that I didn't want any fuss. No fuss at all. If this is what they call no fuss, then god help us all.