Nobody at work gets my sense of humor. I’ve puzzled about this for some time and have decided that the only explanation is that its so cryptic and developed (and also that I’m so intelligent). Or it might be that I mainly sit in my cubicle and refrain, for the most part, from talking to anyone for longer than one minute. In the space of one minute, how could there be any time to discuss anything other than the weather? Unlike farmers, though, the weather is less consequential to corporate business types like my co-workers and me. Co-workers schmo-workers. We’re hardly co-anything, me just recently 27 and most of them 35+. So anyway, I guess there are several reasons no one gets my delightfully sarcastic sense of humor, age being one of them. Here’s an example of how I fail miserably to connect with them:
Returning from lunch, Linda* passes me on her way out of our boss’s office. And she says over her shoulder what is mostly likely intended for our boss, but could have very well been directed at me since we’re facing each other and even make direct eye-contact, “Alright, good work!”
To which I reply, “Thank you.” She breezes by in her usual efficient, brisk walk. She says nothing. In fact, I almost think not a soul has noticed my casual wittiness until I hear Bob shout from his office.
“She was talking to me!” And this is followed by small, inconsequential half-banter, with me delivering the entire half of the banter.
But you see, this is how it always is. I might mutter a smart remark from within the confines of my cubicle and everyone around me largely ignores it. Five or six other people surround me, all within earshot, and I can’t even banter with them. In any other environment, my tongue-in-cheek ‘thank-you’ would have gotten a round of applause, followed by a snide-remark in return. I.E.:
“Alright, good work!” Said over the shoulder, obviously meant for someone else.
“Thank you.” Followed by much laughter.
“Ha, good work. Work is like the f-word to you, something you’ve never done.” Followed by more laughter, and this is obviously my fantasy job as a construction worker** since nobody here EVER says the f-word (or maybe they do, just not around me).
Taking off my white glove (you didn't realize I was wearing gloves, did you), I reply by inserting a recently materialized brick into the glove, and then proceed to slap my co-worker's face several times with the brick-heavy glove, in manner of Yosemite Sam and Bugs Bunny. When I'm done, I shake the brick-remains out into a small pile at my feet. . . .
But, you get the idea.
And actually, I did have a job like this. The cd store in Logan. Graywhale. Where everything was always a joke and I was teased over everything, from my secret love for pop music to being a lesbian (which I’m not, but that didn’t stop my male co-workers. They were all male and fantasists). And actually, if I think about it a lot and am honest, I prefer the job where no one gets my sense of humor and there’s a thin pretense of respecting each other. I prefer that over the job where everything’s a joke.
But seriously. Can’t there be an in-between? If there is, sign me up.
Tomorrow,"10 things the bathroom at work is NOT intended for."
*Obviously names have been changed to protect me from losing my job over writing blog entries about work.