Ah, touching base. The worst of the worst of all the corporate world bullshit speak.
Particularly painful and shudder-inducing for me, given my entire career up until a few months ago, was spent surrounded by aged men. The sort with a twitchy hand on your lower back, the “if I were ten years younger” ones, the ones with their bellies threatening to burst out from their suits and their jawlines merging with their necks. I bet they’d love nothing more than to touch base. Excuse me, whilst I vom slightly.
The circling back, drilling down, wrapping up, even the least offensive ‘kind regards’ now makes me cringe… oh, how I thankful I am to be shot of it all.
But for year, years, I loved it. It was my circus, my playground, and I owned it. I loved the pencil skirts, the board rooms, the death by powerpoint and the networking drinks with the impossible-to-eat-in-any-dignified-way-so-you-just-give-up bowl food. I loved the internal politics, the power-plays and the HR bollocks.
I think I loved it because I liked proving people wrong. I was too young. I was a woman. I had tattoos, nothing major back then, but enough to just subtly poke out from my collar or skirt. I had a flash of bright red amongst my brunette. I had a hole where my nose piercing lived on the weekends. I liked proving that a twenty something girl in a room full of balding old men could pique their business minds and make shit happen.
But, today, I sit at my desk next to the too trendy exposed brick, listening to Eminem on the office Sonos, wearing a cropped blouse with bunnies on (thanks, Topshop), Dr Martens boots (8 eyelet patent black, of course), with my ripped jeans showing a hint of my now fully tattooed leg. I’m talking to the girl opposite about the staff jolly to Berlin we’re all heading off on tomorrow morning… It’s a different world. One most people would kill for.
But for me, I love both. Maybe I will touch base with some old colleagues.