The Femgineer

**I wrote most of this while I was still working in manufacturing. Time will tell how much of it will hold true in the Banking world.**


As I said in my first post, Femgineer is my nickname for my work persona. She’s oh-so-together, smooth, calm, professional, no-nonsense, tough. I even have a special voice for her, a little deeper than my own. She’s a little bitchy, all about delivery, oh-so-un-feminine in her scuffed steel-toed safety shoes, stained and faded jeans, acid proof overall and ear-plugs. She scales up cat-ladders (100% vertical, narrow, steel ladders) and walks boldly across shaky platforms as if the plant is her industrial playground. She doesn’t hesitate to get her hands - and hair - dirty and swears like a Jerry Springer Show guest to let you know she’s one of the guys. She asks intelligent, probing questions so that you’ll think she knows what she’s doing... So that you’ll think she cares what the hell you’re talking about!


Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a total fake at work. I get a kick out of designing things and seeing them work. I get a kick out of learning how things function, out of learning these traditionally “guy things”. I have my good Femgineer moments when I feel like a real engineer and I feel proud to be one. And even more proud when I’m the only woman around the board room table, not only holding my own, but chairing the design lock, safety study or commissioning meeting. I have my Femgineer victory dance moments, but they’re rather few and all too far between. And I usually have to take them in the Ladies room.


It pays the bills and sometimes it’s fun, but this whole Engineer thing is not totally me. It requires a bit of a masquerade from me to get by….


On a bad day, it requires me to feign interest in pump specifications, piping and instrumentation diagrams and pH control problems when I have PMS and really just want to take a big old nap. On a good day, I feel genuinely interested in verifying the bulk density of the soon-to-be launched washing powder, or calculating the cooling capacity of the refrigeration plant. I just have to pretend that I enjoy wearing safety boots.


And almost daily, it requires me to know how to smile through the innuendo and inappropriate comments - from operators and old-school engineers - that border on sexual harassment because it’s faster than kicking up a fuss. I’ve finely honed the skill of smiling whilst thinking: “You f***ing piece of disgust. Just place the f***ing order, draw the f***ing drawing, make the f***ing call without staring at my miniscule boobs which I’ve tried to hide under this unflattering, oversized T-shirt. Good god, man! I didn’t even wash my face today! How bad can your wife be?” Smile, grin, grit my teeth. It all becomes one thing. It’s a disposable smile. As soon as my back’s turned, I peel it off and drop it in the trash. But I have enough stocked up to last the day. Like tissues… and tampons.


And then - once in a while - there are really inspiring days when a problem I’ve been trying to solve for an eternity finally clicks into place or some or other piece of equipment I need to commission finally gets hauled into place, switched on and the design delivers what it’s meant to right off the bat. And then I get home, peel off my dirty jeans and two-sizes-too-big work t-shirt, wash the dust out of my hair and sink into the sofa feeling the euphoria of accomplishment.


Feeling passionate about what I do!! Feeling intelligent and competent!


Feeling victorious.


Until tomorrow…