I was at work, working. Doing the marketing. That’s what I do for work because I’m too old to do the lifting. I’m over 40. I’m old.
I was editing a document. I was tracking all the changes because team members were going to review the document when I was done; to make sure the changes I made were in alignment with things like strategy and sanity. I require adult supervision disguised as “teamwork” and “collaboration.” In marketing, we dress many things in euphemisms. Of course, as I was editing I was also making jokes in the comments along the margins. Because I’m a human being who tries to be a human laughing every chance I get.
When I was done, I clicked send. It’s what you do when you want to share a document–or a “doc” as we call them. In the biz. Look, these inner workings of life as a marketer are all very complicated and I don’t want to get too insider on you, but clicking send is what you do when you’re done making changes to docs at a marketing job. Let’s leave it at that.
Curious thing, though, instead of ignoring my jokes as most adults are wont to do, my coworker and fellow project member, Kirsten actually Skyped me about them (I’m not going into a whole thing about what Skype is here–you only need to understand that she communicated the following to me):
K: great comments
K: i laughed out loud
K: and tried to explain your funnies to my mom and aunt
K: but they don’t know you.
K: so they didn’t think it was as funny as i did
I looked at the screen for a long time. A brutal roller coaster constructed of four short messages. The initial exhilarating dip. The stomach-flipping twist. The unexpected crash. The rib-breaking stop.
I was confronted with a devastating reality. I picked up the phone. This was urgent. This was bigger than Skype. Fuck Skype.
“Yes, Jeff?” Kirsten on the first ring.
“Yeah, about the project.”
“I saw your changes,” said first ring Kirsten, “And I’m good with them. I said so.”
“Yeah, whatever about the changes, I’m more concerned with your other comments. Your Skyped comments.”
“About the funny. About how I’m not funny.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t funny.”
“Yes you did. If my funny depends on knowing me, then my funny isn’t funny on its own, and therefore, you know, I must not be funny. I’m definitely not funny”
“Ok,” I could tell first-ring, anti-PSL Kirsten was not in the mood for this. “First of all, we’re at work. I have work to do. Secondly, that’s not it at all. It was my delivery. Comedy is always about context. And my delivery was bad. So, fragile man, you are funny and I have work to do.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I’m just not funny. At all.”
Burdened with this knowledge, I rushed over to this very site. I had some explaining to do. Some apologizing. Some begging, even. I needed to let you know that I never intentionally misled you.
If you thought any of my DIY posts were actual life hacks, then I apologize for what I inadvertently did to your house.
If you thought THIS POST IS GOING TO BE SO GOOD was going to be good, I’m sorry.
If you were hoping to know the truth about goatees or how to have an enjoyable dining experience at Panda or learn what the hell a baby bakery is and why it’s been closed, then I can only offer you a weak, overdue, heart-felt apology. I don’t know anything about goatees or why it’s the approved facial hair of douchebags. An enjoyable experience at Panda Express is impossible. And the baby bakery is my wife’s uterus. I cannot refund the time you spent here.
In fact, this post is more than likely a revelation to you. You were probably reading my words under the assumption that I was trying to be helpful and failing. Trust me, helpful is the last thing I want to be. And a failure is the first thing I am.
Now that I realize none of this is funny to you, I feel like a guy with his hand jammed up in his armpit making fart noises at a funeral. Which might seem like a good idea until you do it. Like my posts. Like everything about me.
I suppose I could try to meet each and every one of you, and get to know you so that you can laugh at this stuff, but that’s just not practical.
But I feel good now that I’ve cleared the air. My soul feels like it does after I’ve been to confession. Lighter, cleaner, and ready to accumulate more sin.
Holy shit, dude, you need to get over yourself. Self-deprecation is a form of narcissism. You know that, right? Because you still think it’s all about you. Go have your girly drink. I’m a little tired of being misrepresented here–that stuff didn’t exactly unfold as you captured it, but whatever. I think people know you’re off.
–First Ring Kirsten