Work Week (Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia)

Last week my department called all employees into the office for a week-long event. Even the out-of-town employees had to fly to Saint Louis. My medical exemption meant I didn’t have to come in at all, but I could if I felt comfortable.

I felt comfortable for one six-hour day in an auditorium, one half day in an auditorium, and one two-hour dinner in a six-story atrium.

Day one: I was going upstairs in the parking garage and the automated elevator voice said, “First. Floor.”

I sobbed, “I MISSED YOU SO MUCH, ELEVATOR LADY.”

The whole day was like that. It was exhausting. I’d turn a corner and see faces from four years ago and every face was more beautiful than I remembered. And of course, I had to say that every time. Everyone’s lifetime compliment allotment has now been maxed out. No more compliments for co-workers, ever.

I got no sleep that night. I stayed up replaying every cringeworthy conversation, every “I missed you so much, when did you get so beautiful?” Every word went into long-term memory. I comforted myself by thinking, “Everyone loves a fool.”

Day Two: The next day was the dinner, and I evidently had four years of inappropriate male banter in my head that had to be released as well. I got so drunk on male attention that twice I had to leave my table (populated entirely of five guys) and seek out some women.

I got two hours of sleep that night, again memorizing every addled word and again telling myself, “Everyone loves a fool.”

The Last Day: I swore to myself that I would keep my mouth shut. No social interactions. It went well until I sat down next to a teammate. I had only met her once before, and within moments I was saying -- and pantomiming -- inappropriate remarks.

Again, three hours of sleep, again reassuring myself that fools are loved, not just suffered gladly.

We don’t this again for another six months, thank god.