Which is weird, because in my mind, my face usually says things like, “I could give a fuck,” or, “I have no time for you right now,” or “I’m constipated.”
That is probably because in my mind, my mind is usually saying things like, “I could give a fuck,” or, “I have no time for you right now,” or “I’m constipated.”
Based on my bogus research, I would estimate that approximately 95% of the people that I deal with on a day-to-day basis get the message that my brain is screaming out of my eyeballs pretty loud and clear. However, some people seem to think that knitted eyebrows, pursed lips, and a brisk tone just scream, “Despite the piles of paperwork on my desk, half dozen unanswered e-mails, and blinking red light on my phone indicating that there are new voicemail messages, I have been dying to hear about your weight loss challenges/impotence/unwanted pregnancy.”*
For those of you that may mistake an off-putting look for a look of intrigue, I offer you this diagram:
I’m not saying that I’m not approachable. I’m approachable. I’m friendly. In fact, I like most people that I meet. That is, until they start telling me about their communicable diseases personal lives.
Like the other day at work, when one of our illustrious vendors confided in me about his love life. Even now, days later, after the greater part of the mortification has dissipated, I still cannot understand how our casual conversation somehow managed to morph into a therapy session.
The encounter started as they usually do. He took my order, and I told him about any business that he should be aware of in the near future. He asked if there were any problems that he needed to know about, I gave a smart-assed reply that my back was pretty sore, but other than that I didn’t have any problems. He commented that his shoulder had been hurting pretty bad, and surmised that he might need some new insoles. I told him about some great insoles that I had recently purchased***, and assumed that we were wrapping up the meeting.
That is when things went seriously awry.
Instead of simply walking away with the golden nugget of information that I handed him about the insoles, he proceeded to explain that the shoulder pain may be due to stress. In fact, he was most certain it was due to stress because, “my girlfriend and I are fighting a lot.”
*crickets* + *blank uncomprehending stare* = *AWKWARD SILENCE*
Despite my slack-jawed silence, the conversation continued…
Mr. Informative: Yeah, we’re kind of at that stage in our relationship where it’s like time to make the next move. Ya know, shit or get off the pot kinda thing. We’ve been dating for about a year now, and I practically live at her place, but I haven’t, like, made the move yet. She’s totally ready though. She’s 28…I’m 32…she told me the other day that if it doesn’t happen soon she’s just going to go get artificially inseminated…ha ha.”
Me: Oh. Um…I hear frozen sperm is expensive?
Mr. Informative: It’s not like I don’t want all that someday. It’s just…ya know…right now we fight a lot. She’s a great girl but she’s just got some insecurities.
Me *Thinks Mr. Informative is looking for advice?*: That sucks dude. Sounds like she’s kind of a head case.
Mr. Informative: Well…it’s not all her fault. She had like a really shitty boyfriend in college that did some pretty rotten things to her. And then…ya know, she got all pissed off at me because my friend e-mailed me these naked pictures. But I didn’t say anything about them I was just like, “Dude do you have a picture of her face”…ya know stuff like that. But she was all mad at me about them because I didn’t delete them. And I guess I really should have deleted them…”
At this point Mr. Informative gave me a look that almost seemed to beg for mercy. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was giving him the exact same look. We stared into each other’s eyes with a mutual understanding that we were no longer involved in a casual conversation. We had crossed that line minutes ago, and there was nothing that either of us could do but let this atrocity of a dialogue run it’s coarse. It was like a train wreck. We both just wanted it all to end but couldn’t figure out a tactful way to make that happen. Really, what could I say at this point, “Dude, sorry your girl found your online porn stash. Sounds like it’s time to change you e-mail password…which reminds me, we need 24oz cups.”
In retrospect, that might have worked.
Me:*Going for helpful* Um…that sounds kind of immature.
Mr. Informative: Well…yeah okay, but it’s not just that either. So…I kind of slept with her cousin. But it was before we were dating. But I didn’t tell her about it. But then she found out. And she was pissed at me, but I was like, “Dude, your cousin totally should have been the one to tell you about it, not me!” What was I going to do, end our first date with, “Yeah, I know we just met, but I boned your cousin a few months ago.” Come on, right?
Me:*HEAD EXPLODES FROM EMBARASSMENT, THE EXPLOSION KILLS EVERYONE IN THE ROOM.*
*I have become privy to no less than 4 colonoscopy procedures, 2 swollen prostates, 2 frigid spouses, 5 affairs, and 1 raging case of hemorrhoids in the past year alone.**
**If I don’t look you in the eye when we converse, chances are good that you are guilty of oversharing.
***Because obviously I am a 65-year-old that talks about constipation and chronic foot pain.
****Also, I just want to point out that in many of my posts I use some literary license. With the exception of this post. The conversation herein is pretty much verbatim. Aside from my head exploding. Obviously.