Thursday, October 28, 2004
My co-workers are really good people. They are very good at what they do, and very nice to me and understanding when I completely fuck up an assignment. And no, I'm not just saying this because any day now they're going to find this site and it's going to be VERY awkward and potentially fatal (for me, when I kill myself for losing my job).
I consider myself very lucky: I'm 25 years old, not a professional athlete, movie star, or rock star, and I really like my job. Sure, I'd rather sit at home all day, get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to talk about how fat I am, and eat bowl after bowl of chili, get high and dance around to Wham in way-too-small boxer briefs, spend three hours a day masturbating in the shower, but hey - life isn't perfect.
The problem is, like I've mentioned before, I'm the youngest by at least five years or so, and most of my co-workers are in their mid-thirties or older. This isn't exactly a "problem" but it inhibits be from fully entering their circle. It also makes me a little nervous around them - since I can't really talk about kids or mortgages or problems with my water heater, I keep to myself, lest one day I inappropriately mention something about how I got really fucked up two weeks ago and nearly drowned in the East River or about how messed up I got on pills last Christmas and after getting into a fist-fight with my brother, burned down our kitchen then wept for twenty-two hours straight.
What also makes me nervous around them is that they are a lot more qualified and educated than I am. There are six other people who do exactly what I do. One has an MBA from Cornell, two have PhD's from Princeton, one has a JD from BC, another has an MA in International Studies from Johns Hopkins, and then there's me: 25, a man lacking all all ambition who graduated college based solely on luck, charm, Sign Language, Theater, a number of Communications courses (zing!) and four History classes with a professor who was at least 320 years old and one time gave the same exact lecture every day for a week straight. Seriously, by the third semester with this guy, his arm could have fallen off in the middle of a lecture and I wouldn't have batted an eyelash.
Where the hell am I going with this? This afternoon, I walked into my boss's office to drop something off I had prepared for his review. As I was leaving, he said, "So how is your class going?" He's a really cool guy, so I started to shoot the shit and told him that class was going well, that I had my mid-term recently, etc etc etc. He asked if it was a Russian history course, and I said yes. He then asked if I spoke Russian. I frantically tried to think of how to say, "I speak a little Russian" in Russian, even though that would be the ultimate douchebag thing to do, but I couldn't come up with it, as I've learned that most of my Russian vocabulary is being gassed out of my brain thanks to my newly-found love of nitrous oxide.
Anyway, I said in English that I only speak a little Russian, and he said, "Well, you should talk to Jessica [a co-worker in a foreign office], because she has her Master's in International Relations from Johns Hopkins and got it in Russian or Russian Studies."
We both sort of chuckled, and I sensed an opportunity for a joke, so I said, "Yeah - [mimicking talking into phone] Hi Jessica, this is Jason. Can you tell me how to say the possessive plural for 'boys'"?
I couldn't have thought of a better fucking noun than boys? One that wouldn't cast doubt on my sexuality in front of my superior, giving the impression that I spend hours each night in front of a computer screen, arousing myself into a vitriolic fit looking at naked pre-teen males? I mean, boys?
As soon as I said it, I realized that I had done something flamingly homosexual. Not only had a made a fake phone with my thumb and pinkie and held it to my ear in a jovial manner, but the first noun that came to my mind was "boys". Sweet.
[Also, asking for the possessive plural of "boys", an already plural noun, is redundant. Correctly, I would have asked for the possessive plural of "boy". Just pointing this out because I know one of you assholes would email me about it.]
And I swear for a split-second I saw a look in my boss's face that was said, "Boys? Jesus Christ - take your flame-thrower out my office before you light my desk on fire, nancy boy." There was some awkward chuckling before I pulled a Lloyd Christmas and said, "Well...see you later!" and walked out of the room.
"Boys". Terrible. Just terrible. I feel like I should walk back into his office and invite him to a strip club with me and my buddies. Or go in and say something like, "So, that Salma Hayek's got some big-ass titties, eh? Man, I'd love to touch those gorgeous, giant breasts, being as I'm straight and all. I would even like to have sexual intercourse with her, preferably without a condom, since condoms are for pussies" as I take a giant swig of Bourbon and pat him on the back. Also I'm wearing a cowboy hat, but a straight-looking one.
Instead, I'll just sit here in my office and sulk. What an asshole.
[Me, not my boss. My boss is great. Super great, if he's reading this.]