You know who I have a problem with? Doormen. Or doorwomen, as the case may be. I work at a building with a doorman and it makes me uncomfortable on so many levels:
1. He opens the door for me because that’s his job, but I bet he is secretly thinking “who is this corporate bitch and why the hell do I have the open the door for her? No one ever opens the door for me! You think you’re better than me?! Huh? Well, do ya?!”
2. I feel obligated to make eye contact, smile and say “thank you” every time I walk through the door. I know it’s the polite thing to do, but it just multiplies the awkwardness for both of us. Now I have to look him in the eye and acknowledge that he’s opening the door for me (because I’m better than him) and he has to look me in the eye and acknowledge that he’s a doorman for a living (and I’m better than him).
3. When he sees me get off the elevator he opens the door and watches me walk all the way to the front door. I can hear him thinking:
“Oh no, take your time. This enormous door isn’t heavy or anything. It’s bad enough I have to open the door for you (because you’re better than me), but now I have to wait while you act out your Victoria’s Secret runway model fantasies in the lobby hallway? YOU’RE NO ALESSANDRA AMBROSIO!”
If I were truly Blair Waldorf (like I am in my fantasies) I would have no problem with this. I’d expect a doorman, demand a doorman if one wasn’t provided for me, and if he dared to look me in the eye I’d say “you’re damn right I’m better than you! Stop making eye contact with your superiors and grab my bags from the car.”