Well, here's some good news, are you ready for some good news? [Note: if you answered "no," then GET READY!]

After years of searching, hours spent on the couch of a Jungian therapist, and lonely trips to the edge of the continent to yell "WHY??" into the void, I have... ready? ready?

FOUND MY PURPOSE!!!

This is not some bawdy Jerk-style innuendo, either, where "purpose" is a euphemism for sex. (And anyway, as a woman I wouldn't understand that kind of humor, according to the Gospel of St. Fizzledick).

I came in bright and cheerful this morning, as usual, because as a woman it is my duty to serve as the shining jewel in the tiara of corporate glory. Accommodating, gracious, but not too intelligent, lest I offend some hem-dragging middle-manager fresh off a three-day drunk, eager to tell me a joke I�m certain to find hilarious, because you know, all guys are HILARIOUS. If I wasn�t so concerned with the sanctity of my womb and these nagging worries about the unfairness of the world, I might be able to tell jokes myself, but my GOD, people: the miracle of birth is all-consuming, even when one (like me) has no actual children of her own. Thank God that men provide the humor in this world, or we would all collapse into a neurotic mass of Maya Angelou-spouting natural fibers.

And anyway, my concern over the state of my hypothetical future children has nothing to do with my great discovery, my discovery of my purpose. (In life!)

As I was saying, I came in to the office this morning, cheerful and keeping all talk of the previous night�s dreams to myself (because there is nothing less funny than hearing a woman talk about her dreams, thank you!), and was greeted by my boss, Mr. Jones, who handed me yesterday�s newspaper, open to the editorial page.

�What�s the deal, Lucille?� I asked, slyly emasculating him with my feline feminine wit, but with a wide smile on my face, to cut the poison. He recoiled slightly, so I fake-laughed at a few of the Ziggy cartoons he keeps posted �for morale� outside his office door. That seemed to assuage him, and he brandished the newspaper, pointing to the picture of the unsmiling yet undoubtedly hilarious male author of a little hatchet piece concerning my boss. I did a little recoiling myself, at the sight of the picture�the author in question is a wormy little thing fond of insinuation and hyperbole, although word has it that rumors of his drunken slaughter of millions of baby ducks may be slightly exaggerated.

Mr. Jones couldn�t care less about the piece�he�s batted a bon-mot or two with the author and come out clean. Mr. Jones wanted me to see what was written about me. I�d had the misfortune to run across the writer�-let�s call him Toadie�-in our lobby one day last week, just as I was fake-laughing at the idiotic monologue delivered by a certain power lawyer who, with his entourage, was hoping to get in to see Mr. Jones. Toadie walked in just as Mr. Lawyer was overwhelming me with flattery in order to gain admittance. �You must be an actress,� he smirked, intoning, �Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink� do you know that one?� Well, I have done a turn on the boards, but I don�t believe that �The Rime of the Ancient Mariner� is traditionally performed on the stage, and I told him so. I immediately realized my mistake�by showing off my startling intelligence, I had failed to appear subservient, hence cutting off all chances of entering into a romantic relationship with him. I watched my new silver Jaguar fly away, trunk filled with Jimmy Choo stilettos and at least one makeover at the Chanel counter of my choice. Having lost the upper hand, I laughed cheerily, desperately, maintaining an expression of thoughtful wonder, as he demanded again to see my boss. Toadie, pretending not to watch, watched from his seat nearby. I hated him for his immense masculine power, his superior wit and intellect, his ill-fitting beige polo shirt�I could sense these things, even without his uttering a word, because as a woman, I am highly sensitive. With my last ounce of uterine strength, I deflected Mr. Lawyer�s attempts to see my boss (who was not even in the building at the time) and issuing a final volley of delighted laughter, glided back to my desk, where I spent several minutes in peaceable contemplation of the structure of the delphinium.

As I said, that happened last week. Friday, to be exact. And here, this morning, is my reward for excellent service. In his description of the encounter he witnessed, Toadie has given me a title and a purpose in life: I am no longer Violet, queen of the west. I am a MINION, an unnamed minion. No longer required to make my own decisions, I can be "sent out" at the behest of my boss--a description of the event that is not strictly accurate, but probably, Toadie planted therein some hilarious male-only code that I as a mere female am ill-equipped to decipher.

I have arrived! I am somebody.

I am MINION.