Dear Co-Worker Who Stops By My Office Daily To Comment On How Tired I Look,
I recognize that your intentions are good. You want to show that you're observant, that you have taken an interest in my well-being.
However, commenting on how completely exhausted I look is not the way to do it. Because, guess what? I can't do anything about how tired I look. I can't shut my office door, drop my head onto my desk, and catch some ZZZs. And the carpet is too scratchy to curl up on. Last time I tried that my left cheek broke out in a rash. (It has taken every fiber of my being to stop my mind from Master Detectiving that scenario to a horrifying culprit.) So, while I appreciate the way you have taken note of my slack-jawed expression, bleary eyes, and sallow skin tone, please stop.
Also, if I throw out a reason for why I'm so visibly haggard, don't discount it with a contemplative "No.... no, that's not it." I know it would be more exciting if the bags under my eyes came from an all-night bounty hunt for a rainbow-haired maniac charged with spray-painting glittery "Sex Club" advertisements across concrete overpasses. (Just for example.) But, in reality, my exhaustion resulted from my determination to get to Row 75 of my most recent knitting project. Let's just all move on, regardless of whether or not you agree with my own assessment of my own exhaustion.
Another thing: I understand that you like to be specific. But you don't need to tell me that my eyes are the feature that looks the saggiest. I can't really do anything about that. I'm never going to have tight, toned eyelids, no matter how many sets of blinks I pump out or how many protein shakes I chug down. If you're going to pick something, just say that my ears look limp. I can camouflage that with a hair part. I can't comb my hair down over my eyes. I've tried bangs over the bags. I looked like Cousin It and typing an email was a disaster. So my sight appliances will continue insulting your workspace vista until you figure out a way to pivot that chair around or start walking the other way to the coffee pot.
I should give this caveat: you can tell me I look like something the cat dragged in until the cows come home if you follow said commentary up with an offer to help. You can literally flick spitballs at me all afternoon if your ammunition comes from this stack of papers needing shredding. But, if not, then get along little doggie. It's my misfortune and none of your own.
Best,
Suano
(Sarah, Amy, Caro, Amber, Shayne, Gregory, Jennifer, Max, Carolyn, B_Gladman, Anchka, Danielle, and Ellen ... sorry for the long drought of posts in this blog you've so graciously clicked to follow. Between work and my aforementioned lack of sleep, I've been struggling to find anything entertaining to write. After six false starts, I finally posted this one in desperation to put something up. Not nearly as amusing as I thought it would/could have been. But my intentions were good! I promise, I'll have much better ones now that I've crapped this piece out and have hopefully passed my writer's block. Cheerio!)
