Bob and Peg Ride the Elevator

I'm pretty damn fortunate to work in an awesome office with really rad, laid-back (read: not stuffy) people. We throw things at each other, exchange profanities, blast music and do all of those things that a really creative and productive office does that suits and squares just don't. Here's the catch: we work in an office building with a lot of suits and squares.

Don't get me wrong. There's a place for people who put on a tie every day and see networking as an actual conscious activity. And most of the suits and squares (let's call them the Bobs and Pegs) are really friendly and seem like good human beings. But regardless of their worth as decent, amiable people, there's a few things almost every Bob and Peg do that really, really aggravate the hell out of me.

Take an average ride in the elevator. No matter if it's first thing in the morning, to or from lunch or even leaving at the end of the day, Bob and Peg can only initiate two topics conservations with me: the weather or the streak of hot pink in my hair. While the weather is good ol' standby small talk fodder, there's really only so much to say about it. Take this exchange from a recent 25 degree day:

Peg: "Can't wait for Spring, huh?"
Me: " Yeah, won't be here soon enough."
Peg: "I heard it's going to warm up this weekend. The 50s or something."
Me: "Let's hope so. "

And that's pretty much every weather conversation. Ever. Replace the details if you want, but the menial pointless dialogue remains the same. Now check out the small talk about my hair:

Bob: "Wow, what color would you call that?"
Me: "Oh, uh, pink."
Bob: "Huh. Is that, permanent or..."
Me: "Semi-permanent. Gotta keep things interesting! "
Bob: "Well, it's...striking/bright/working for you, that's for sure."
Me: "Ha, thanks."

Now let's just completely gloss over the fact that's it's pretty ballsy and borderline rude to question a complete stranger's personal appearance (I could have a whole post just for that). What is there to say here? Yes, part of my hair is pink. Yes, I know this. No, you don't know nor care about the difference between permanent and semi-permanent hair color but I can certainly tell you which of the two it is. Glad we had this talk.

While I don't expect to discuss philosophy or debate the dominance of Hellenic references in pre Judeo-Christian Persia during my five story ascent, where's the creativity? Where's the interest? Have the Bobs and Pegs of the world fallen into such a routine that even something as simple as small talk on an elevator has a mere two forms? No deviation, no straying from the traveled social road, no...improvisation.

Ugh. Even thinking about being that static is making me bored. I think that calls for a break to pose the action figures on my desk, take photos and post them to Facebook.

Loves,

Kt

I'm like the Mr Rogers of Mortification

How to Turn Perfectly Neutral Events into Situations Which Are Embarrassing Because You're a Temp So No One Wants to be Your Friend at Work

(Sidenote: step one is obviously to have debilitating social anxieties.)

Get to the fancy cafeteria. Order your fancy food. Go to grab a napkin - the guy in front of you has just taken the last one. "Oh, do you need this?" he asks with an almost imperceptible sneer (but you're crazy, so you catch it). "Oh no," you laugh, "I'm not a messy eater." Too much information, you scream at yourself, now you look like you're trying to be his friend. Quickly break eye contact, worry you look too bitchy, resign yourself to sitting alone and reading a book AGAIN. Lift the fork with your first bite of delicious tortellini - oh, it's on your pants. And there's no napkins. Proceed to surreptitiously remove the pasta from your lap, put it back on the plate, and attempt to clean the sauce from your pants with your fingers. Fail. Finish your pasta, realize you ate the one that fell. Worry that everyone in the cafeteria noticed for some reason.

Notice your chapstick is missing. Must have fallen out of my pocket. Ugh. That shit costs like $4. Fuck it, I have another one at home. Not worth staying late to look for it. Get your stuff, go out to sit (alone) on the company shuttle. Before it can leave, someone climbs in with your chapstick in her hand. "Someone lost their Burt's Bees!" she exclaims, as if she's just saved a box full of kittens from a burning elementary school. Don't say anything because you've already resigned yourself to having lost it. Everyone on the bus proceeds to check their purses and pockets, announcing one by one that they all have theirs. You panic inwardly. It's been too long now to say something, and you don't feel like going through the ruse of checking your pockets. You also don't want to say anything, because you're hoping no one has noticed you exist, let alone that you're sitting on their bus like a criminal. One woman says "Oh! I think it's mine!" She goes up, opens it, crinkles her nose and says "Nevermind, mine was new. Look, this one's used." She throws it in the garbage, and you have a 25 minute bus ride to deride yourself for being so blue-collar as to actually use your $4 chapstick. Which is now in the garbage.

Smash your finger in a drawer. "Oh my god, are you okay?" asks your (probably faking it)concerned coworker. Pretend like it didn't hurt; kick yourself for grimacing when you should be producing a convincing smile. Gradually realize that the pain is getting worse, not better, and that you may have broken your finger. Shit, it's bent. Did it always look like that? Do I need to go to the ER? Glance at your coworker; she hasn't noticed the tears welling up in your eyes. Announce too loudly that you need to run to the restroom. Hide there, running cold water on your finger, until you can convince yourself it was always slightly bent and that if your future husband really loves you he won't mind. Worry that you've been in the restroom too long and that someone will assume you're up to something. Consider faking puke noises to further your bulimia charade; decide against it in case the CEO overhears. Sneak back to your desk; announce too loudly that you stopped by the kitchen for some water.

TO BE CONTINUED.