Cathy the Complain Queen
I was at my desk, filing the Johnson claim that Becca had ‘forgotten’ to process, when my phone started buzzing with texts. ‘Cathy, you need to see this,’ wrote Margie, followed by a link. I clicked it, and my heart sank to my sensible shoes.
There was Becca, wearing a gray wig that looked suspiciously like my hair, hunched over with exaggerated poor posture, and sporting a pair of oversized glasses.
‘Well, actually,’ she whined in a nasal voice that was supposed to be mine, ‘in my thirty years of experience, we’ve ALWAYS done it this way.
‘ She proceeded to shuffle papers dramatically, complaining about technology and ‘these young people’ while the comments section exploded with laughing emojis.
The caption read: ‘Every office has one: Cathy the Complain Queen.’ I felt physically ill watching her performance rack up thousands of likes. This wasn’t just unprofessional—it was cruel, personal, and now my humiliation had gone viral.
Coworkers I’d known for years were avoiding eye contact in the break room. Even Dave, who usually had my back, just mumbled ‘Sorry’ before hurrying away.
I sat there, hands shaking, as the reality sank in: this wasn’t just about a job anymore. This was about my dignity. And I knew exactly what I had to do next.