Refuse
Reading: Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Listening to: Nocturne No. 1 in B flat Minor, Op. 9 by Frédéric Chopin
I'm three weeks into my new job.
My clothes still smell like BO after tea time, probably because I refuse to spend extra money taking a second bus. So doggedly, with laptop in bag, I walk to my office building fifteen minutes Monday to Friday. Additionally, we have to leave the office to attend external meetings at least twice a week. My colleagues do not stink, much to my bewilderment.
I wear oversized black Oxford shirts and black jeans almost every day. The e-reader I faithfully carry with me to lunch is plastered with anti-capitalist and non-binary pride stickers. For fear of her daughter potentially losing her source of income, she begs me to "tone it down" but I refuse to sanitise my identity. Eventually, to my chagrin, I have decided to minimally compromise by wearing my favourite blood red shirt on days with external meetings. Red signifies luck in some cultures, anyway, so a suitable compromise it is.
Many puzzled over why I have chosen this line of work. They were sure I had much better offers with my educational background, lamented that the hours in this industry were long, and warned that this specific niche within the industry would not pay off. But I refuse to go anywhere else, because this job has little conflict with my morals. (Maybe someday I will write more about perceived moral superiority.)
I often wonder how different of a person would I be if I weren't so stubborn.