Strange Stories

The guys in the office have been so sickeningly nice to me of late, that I was starting to worry. One had offered to do a really inconvenient favor for me. Another, who generally treats me like a plague carrier, put his hand on my shoulder, smiled sympathetically, and asked how my day was, leaving me stammering in surprise.

I couldn’t figure it out. There hadn’t been any screaming or cursing involved in my “implosion,” days earlier. Had the expression on my face been that scary? And if so, how could I replicate it?

Then, one of my colleagues spilled the beans. They’d seen me go into the board meeting before my silent temper tantrum and assumed that the board had given me a hard time. Since this board meeting has resulted in a week of late nights for the office staff, their sympathies lay squarely in my court. And by some weird proxy, the staff’s misconception turned me into the office pet.

Why isn’t it surprising that not a single man in the office imagined my ire might have been directed at him? Of course, a convoluted fantasy about board persecution makes much more sense.

I’m not sure if I should set the record straight or enjoy the favoritism while I can.

I’m leaning toward the latter.