I work with a woman who is obsessed with her feet. Foot Lady has managed to work her feet into every conversation she’s had for the past decade. She stopped me last week to ask how the plastic surgery visit went and was able to parlay that into more foot commentary.
This has driven co-workers absolutely mad. It’s not even merely a reaction to the tedious subject matter; it’s because she randomly plops one or both of her feet on her desk to get specific about the latest problem. Yes, we are forced to look. And yes, many times she’s wearing a dress. I don’t think you wish to hear the details of how that happens. You just never know when she’s feeling inspired, so it’s hard to prepare yourself emotionally for a foot encounter.
She had surgery on both feet last year. Before surgery, she made me look at this icky sore on the bottom of one of her feet. I guess I deserved it. I’d managed to remain unscathed for years. Some people have been forced to gaze upon their majesty many times. Having seen them once, you most definitely wouldn’t want to see either one of them again.
We’ve all been required to acknowledge the foot surgery by listening to a blow-by-blow recounting of how long the surgery took, how long she had to wear funny shoes, how painful it was. You can see where I’m going with this.
I’d hoped that, after the surgeries and rehab, her feet would cease to be a major focal point of conversation with her. Obviously, I was wrong. After Foot Lady launched into a full-blown recitation of her ongoing problems and hiked one foot up on the desk, I was edging toward the door, trying to make my escape.
“Gotta go. Really, really tired,” I kept saying whenever she took a breath. I’m polite to a fault. It’s partly due to growing up in the South, where we’re always polite no matter how much we hate you. It’s partly due to my father’s insistence on (some types of) manners. It’s partly due to my own obsessiveness. God forbid that I should forget the basic rules of etiquette.
It’s especially hard for me to walk away when someone has been kind enough to inquire as to how the whole cancer thing is going. It just seems rude to give them an abbreviated version of my current state of being and then waltz away, leaving the inquirer to curb their need to work in a little bit about themselves. Hey, I’m hip to that. We all like to talk about ourselves. Well, except for the pathologically independent ggirl (according to my therapist).
So there you are. I count myself lucky that Foot Lady didn’t make me touch it. She was comparing the numbness on part of her foot to some numbness I experience as a result of multiple surgeries. Trust me, I do not make people look at the places where I’m numb. I most certainly do not make people touch them.
I saw her briefly this morning, but our discussion centered on rats. Hey, better than feet.
On the Loathsome front, he still hasn’t put in an appearance in the office. I’m amazed and nonplussed. I’ve started to feel stupid for making myself show up at the office when it’s been physically difficult for me. I was so looking forward to running into him and asking a seemingly polite question about the tool accident. Fortunately, I have mastered the art of looking innocent while I politely and surreptitiously cause untold amounts of discomfort. Yet another benefit of that Southern thing. That’s okay. I’ll see him at some point. I have a very long memory.
I sent out an email to everyone about the cat situation. Coworkers have been very unhappy about my kitties for a very long time. They (unfortunately, I do not mean my colleagues) have been disappearing at an alarming rate. We’re down to 2.5. One of them is only here part-time, so he really gets to be counted as half a cat.
Yes, I admit to being a little angry and bitter about their collective attitudes. Nonetheless, I sent out a brief and factual email to everyone in the office about the dwindling kitty population. Later, I stopped in to say hello to the owner of the company and we discussed the (as yet) unread email.
“Who did you send it to?” he asked.
“Everyone in the office.”
“Was it sardonically worded?” he smiled conspiratorially. Owner is aggravated by coworkers’ kitty irritation.
“No.” I said.
“Why not?” I could tell he really, really wanted me to take verbal gloves off and come out swinging.
“I edited myself on the way back from lunch. You know, it’s usually better that way,” I smiled at his appreciation for my rapier tongue and my unerring instinct for finding the soft underbelly of everyone I meet.
“Were people giving you shit about the cats?” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at me. I could tell that would have added more people to the torture list or just upped the ante on those folks who are already on it.
“No. I just know how happy that would make them. Just wanted to say ‘congrats,’” I gave him that half smile I get when retribution is definitely in the offing.
Yes, I’m angry and a trifle bitter about their constant whining about the cats. If you work here and that’s the biggest source of your unhappiness, you are one very lucky (and possibly stupid) human being. But you know, whatever makes the assholes happy.
I don’t have to be friendly and solicitous to anyone except the guy who always sees eye to eye with me over the kitty issue, the owner of the company. Grown men have been known to almost lose control of their bladders when faced with my icy, but infinitely polite gaze. I have my ways. You know, I’m a Southerner.
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