High maintenance people make me think of a game we used to play as kids called, “You're It,” and that’s just it. They have to be “It” all the time. I describe them as demanding, usually bullies, and no matter how much time and energy you spend in trying to please them, it’s never enough.

So what makes the world go round for these high maintenance people? Mules like me. People who carry stuff, absorb weight, endure long distances. I bet for every HM person, there lives a low maintenance person in close proximity. Sorta like the saying, “There’s a top for every pot,” and maybe for every Highness, there’s a Mule. We seem to have a way of choosing one another, whether it’s a mate for life or in the work place.

I pondered this then because for most of my life, I’d been a Mule. It may sound far-fetched, but I believe my mule-ship started when as a 5-year-old child, I helped our housekeeper pick things up, make things tidy, straighten things out and roll them back up, whether it was a vacuum hose or a water hose. There was something pleasing about this activity. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, my tendency to tend house meshed with a need to take care of people, too.

I’d been married to a high maintenance person for five years when we divorced. After that, I went out and found a high maintenance person to work for. He was 69 years old, charming and as CEO of the company, offered me a job as his secretary. In the beginning, we got along splendidly. He seemed patient with my lack of secretarial skills, but my enthusiasm and eagerness to please made me a quick study. Soon after this initial phase of harmony, however, things went haywire.

I was slow in figuring this out, but he was married and also had a mistress with child. He’d given me very specific instructions as to what to say and immediately what to do when either party called. Often during these calls, I’d hear a faint click on the line, getting the creepy feeling that he was listening in. If he was traveling with one when the other called the office, he developed an elaborate plan as to how I should communicate this to him.

Sometimes when things got confusing, I didn’t execute the plan exactly as he’d ordered. He’d stand towering over my desk like someone singing opera...his voice sounding low and quiet at first, then crescendoing into an intense volume that made me shake. Whether it was business or personal, surveillance seemed to thrill him. I thought the game silly and humiliating. As my respect for him quickly dwindled, some for myself did, too.

It’d been a busy morning at the office when, out of the blue, I received a phone call from my ex-husband. He said, “Katie, I think I know what to do, but I just needed to talk to you first.”

My heart jumped. “It’s Ty,” he said, who was our beloved Rottweiller. I’d agonized leaving him behind, thinking that he’d be happier living on a farm than in my apartment.

“He’s got cancer bad,” Todd said. “The vet said we could amputate his leg, but he thinks it’d do more harm than good.”

I didn’t hesitate. I thanked Todd for calling me and told him, “Tell the doctor to come on out. I’ll be right there.”

I rapped briskly on the CEO’s door.

“Come in,” he said, with a curt tone.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but something’s come up and I really need to leave and go tend to it.” I proceeded to quickly explain. “My dog is really…”

My boss held his hand up like a traffic cop.

“Wait a minute, Katie,” he commanded. “You mean to tell me you wanta leave here so you can go see a DOG?”

“Yes sir,” I replied, holding my hands together tightly and feeling a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.

“Well, I tell you one thing,” he said, glaring at me with narrowed eyes, “if you walk outta here now, don’t bother coming back.”

For a second, I stood in the doorway and we stared at one another. I felt the butterflies fall to rest like feathers.

I turned and walked out of there, feeling with every step that something inside of me was changing forever.