Filed under: times I wanted to spontaneously combust

I’ve been working at the new job for about a month and a half now. There has been much hilarity including this, this, this and especially this:

But there is one distinct moment that sticks out in my mind. One that most of the people I work with don’t know about. One that I considered blogging about but I didn’t want it to be misconstrued as sexual harassment. Anyhow, please enjoy this look into my mind when under the pressure of an overpowering fear of looking a) stupid, or b) like the office perv.

(HI WORK PEOPLES. DON’T FIRE ME. KTHXBAI)

So it’s nearing the end of the day. I’m pretty much toast. Most of the other people have already left. I’ve mentally checked out which is why I probably wasn’t mentally prepared for this last coworker visit of the day.

The office artist pops into my office. Now, I can’t say much about her because we haven’t had much to do with each other yet. What I do know is that she seems very nice, has a door with an office, is one of the more senior employees despite being quite young (which both impresses and intimidates me), and is what I would want to look like if I were to become a woman tomorrow (I’m not planning on that, don’t panic).

She holds up two pieces of paper and asks which one I like better. They are both 8.5×11, they are both white, they both have text on them. That much we know. So I begin to read, very carefully, the first sheet. And then the second sheet. And then the first sheet again. And then back to the second sheet.

They both seem to say the exact same thing.

Must.

Find.

Difference.

Mustn’t.

Look.

Stupid.

And then I’m getting desperate. Minutes are passing as my eyes flick from page to page as she’s standing there, holding them both, trying to figure out how to mask how weirded out she is that she has been posing by my desk as I stare in her direction for the better part of four minutes.

It gets to the point where all I can think about is that I need her to know that I’m blind and slow not creepy and objectifying. Say something homosexual, Ben! Anything! Sing a showtune! Nonfat, sugarfree grandé caramel misto! MEN! I LOVE MEN!

But instead, I sheepishly make eye contact, recognizing the sheer desperation in her eyes to leave my office immediately and blurt out, with a voice crack for good measure:

“I….uhh…don’t see the difference…don’t they both say the same thing?”

“Yes. I’m asking which font you like.”

*palmtoforehead*

And of course that would imply that I STILL need to give my opinion but since I was already completely beyond my comfort levels, I’m pretty sure I just guessed…

WIN.