An overly aggressive open letter to the guy in the sales dept.

You work upstairs. I work downstairs.

You drive me absolutely nuts. To the point where I don't even want to go to the upstairs office.

The worst part of it is I don't know why I let you affect me so much. You have never done anything to me except sneak photos of me with your shiny new phone once in a while (did you delete those 4 photos of me that I found on your computer??). And there was that time when I fell off my chair because I reacted impulsively when I sensed that you were reaching out to touch my cheek. It's ok. I was just clumsy. But please, next time, no need to help me up, and then speculate on my bra color just because I had buttons on the back of my shirt.

Others simply rolled their eyes whenever you started your whole sucking up routine. But most of the time, I was just in awe. How did you say everything with a straight face? But then I scrutinized you yesterday and I thought, shoot, this guy really seemed to believe every exaggerated thing that came out of his mouth. An essential salesperson characteristic?

Yes, I did not like how you dropped your entire sales proposal on my lap just because I offered to help out. It was extra tough swallowing your passive aggressive insinuation that I wasn't working hard enough because I refused to continue to work on your proposal over my holiday break in the Maldives, especially when you handed me the project the day before my flight. But I was mainly resentful because I actually did spend a whole night tossing, wondering if you were right and that I was just complaining like a girl and not getting the thing done. 

And yet -

There was the time when I curled up in the corner of the stone platform in front of the office building, aching, while talking to my sister on the phone, and you came and gave me some paper napkins left over from your lunch. Even though they looked suspiciously used, I still appreciated that you saw me like that and didn't bring it up again.

Now that I've somewhat articulated this pent up -- ugh -- something, I just want to let you know that I've finished the proposal. You'll find it in your inbox tomorrow morning.

Punctuate My Love

Sometimes, reading old love letters is painful. I can't help it - I just linger over every misplaced comma, cringe at all the misused contractions that make me into body parts ("you're beautiful eyes"), and agonize over run-on sentences that could have been easily fixed with elegant semi-colons.

Young Women leaders have drilled into my head that "spouse who understands the necessity of spaces within ellipses (space dot space dot space dot space)" is not appropriate for my future husband list . . .  but surely a comma-conscious man is not too much to ask for?

The Purple Tablecloth

Today while packing up at Kaplan's free practice test event, I folded a purple plastic tablecloth.

I concentrated on the ridges already there, trying to divine what the original tablecloth folder had in mind. Did she want it folded lengthwise inward first? Or maybe she flipped it outwards along the width. Biting my lips, I folded it over and over again, feeling that I was intruding upon my predecessor's tablecloth-folding territory and making too many of my own grooves.

All of a sudden, one of the Salt Lake Kaplan center ladies came over and eased it out of my hands. She rustled the tablecloth, clumsily connecting corner to corner, and shoved it away in the container. The edges didn't even kiss. She laughed, "Oh my goodness, you're not one of those OCD girls are you?"

I vacillated between shock and confusion.

Me with OCD? What is she talking about?

It just never occurred to me that I could fold this piece of purple plastic so casually, completely disregarding the perfect symmetrical ridges that somebody's flawless folding had imprinted. Her total indifference almost seemed . . . sacrilegious.

So, when her back was turned, I took it out and folded it again.

p.s. Today I learned that I hate selling. But unfortunately, I'm very good at it.

The sound of pants

In my mind, I'm the tragic heroine who suddenly goes blind but surprises the world with her supernatural hearing. But really, I'm just an intern whose back is to the corridor with the heaviest traffic and playing mind games while researching all things China.

Men's pants cling onto the wearer in distinctive ways. The pant legs rub against each other in various degrees, producing signature sounds that scream out who you are.

The man with the gold-rimmed glasses, 80s Chinese hairstyle, and the multi-color polos down the hall has wide, billowy pant legs. When he walks by, they sound as if two pieces of tissue paper, folded loosely in half, are being pushed against each other in an up and down motion.

My boss dresses in form-fitting, straight boot leg trousers that result in minimal noise. Most of the time, I know it's him because I sense the very muted presence that his pant legs create.

The middle-aged econ section reseacher slash night time professor sports relaxed khakis. Similarly, his pants produces sounds with a certain softness, unlike some which are very jarring.

Ironically, the quietest men have the noisiest pants. Perhaps it's their way of compensating.

The body language of emails

I obsess over emails, not necessarily over their content but rather the delivery.

 

Sentences full of shpelling mistaks, LOL, or .....? I instinctively read faster and skip over them, pretending I don't notice so as to spare my sender any imaginary embarassment.

 

A "I hope your work is treating you well" from somebody I just met? I cringe. Perhaps we didn't hit it off as well as I think we did. 

 

A new animated emocon in an email from my mom this morning? I sat there absolutely shocked. I don't even know how to do that myself. 

 

And a sentence highlighted in bold when I wasn't expecting it? I just about cried.