The Fine Art of Fine

  I'm in my third meeting of the day (or maybe fourth? They've started to blur together like a corporate watercolor), nodding along like one of those dashboard bobbleheads you get at gas stations. Someone's droning on about synergy or optimization or whatever buzzword won the LinkedIn lottery this week, and I'm doing what I always do - smiling and saying I'm fine with whatever the team decides.

I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I'm totally, completely, one-hundred-percent fine.

(Narrator: She was not, in fact, fine.)

Except I'm so far from fine that 'fine' has become one of those words that doesn't even sound like a word anymore. Like when you say 'fork' fifty times until your brain convinces you it's alien speech. Fork. Fooork. F o r k.

Fine.

"You know," Russell says later, catching me stress-eating my way through a family-size bag of chips at my desk (the good ones too, not those sad break room vending machine ones that taste like salted disappointment), "for someone who's 'fine,' you're displaying a concerning level of snack aggression."

"I'm-" I start automatically.

"If you say 'fine' one more time, I'm hiding your emergency chocolate stash."

I slump in my chair, clutching my chips protectively. "What else am I supposed to say? 'Sorry, but your strategic vision makes me want to fake my own death and start a new life raising alpacas in Peru?' Actually, wait. That doesn't sound half bad. Do alpacas need resumes?"

"Ah," Russell nods, brazenly stealing one of my chips (the audacity!), "Sartre would call this 'bad faith' - denying your own freedom to choose by hiding behind social roles."

"I'm not hiding," I protest through a mouthful of processed potato guilt. "I'm being professional. There's a difference. I think. Is there a difference? There should be a difference."

"Is there?" Russell asks, eyeing my chip bag again. "Or is 'being professional' just a convenient excuse to avoid the discomfort of having an actual opinion?"

I stare into my chip bag like it might contain the secrets of the universe. Or at least a good excuse. "But what if my actual opinion burns every professional bridge I've got? What if-"

"What if the sky falls? What if aliens invade? What if the break room coffee actually starts tasting good?" Russell grins, successfully nabbing another chip while I'm distracted by existential dread. "You're choosing to believe you have no choice."

"That's not..." I trail off, remembering this morning's meeting. Had anyone actually asked me to agree? Or had I just nodded along, playing the role of Corporate Kara™ because it was easier than engaging? And why do I keep making up theoretical alpaca farms as an escape plan?

"The truth is," Russell says, going for a third chip (seriously, get your own snacks, philosophy man), "saying you're 'fine' with everything is just another way of saying you're fine with not being yourself."

As he walks away with his stolen potato bounty, I look at my notebook from the morning meeting. It's filled with doodles of alpacas wearing business suits. One of them is saying "synergy" in a speech bubble. Even my subconscious is getting sassy.

I pull up the project proposal and start typing: "I have some concerns about the timeline..."

It's terrifying. It's uncomfortable. It's probably going to make tomorrow's meeting weird enough to qualify as performance art.

But at least it's not fine.

Now, about those alpaca farming tutorials on YouTube...