As you should have gathered by now, I don’t write about my current place of work. However, since this story blurs the line between personal and professional, and only happened to take place in my office, I feel obliged to share.
Maybe “blur” isn’t the correct term. Perhaps “obliterates” is more appropriate.
More than a few months ago, my boss walked into my office, and turned to close the office door. For the uninitiated, this is the office signal for “important conversation”.*
“I have a proposition for you,” she says as the door clicks shut.
Please, please, please extend my contract.
“Would you like to go on a blind date?”
“I know, I know, blind dates are scary.”
“I’m not afraid of first dates, really. I think I make an excellent first date.”
Shut up, shut up! Now is not the time for bragging!
“Good, good! This fellow is a lawyer at XABC Bank.”
Great. A lawyer. I don’t know any of those.
“He’s a friend of my friend. He’s in his early forties.”
I must be sitting in what can only be described as shellshock, so she continues.
“He’s very nice, he’s just shy.”
I must still look unimpressed.
“His parents own a house in Rosedale.”
So does Conrad Black.
“And he really wants to have children.”
Is this an argument for or against? Hello, have you met me?
“So, what do you say?”
“You can think about it if you like.”
“Uhhhhhh…well, I’m not against meeting new people, in principle.”
“Great! Normally I wouldn’t do this, but my friend was mentioning that she’s wanted to set this poor…uhhh…nice fellow up on a date since forever, and I said to her…
Wait for it…
“I know someone who could really use a date.”
Aaaaauuugh. Must. Not. Stab. Own. Eye. With. Pen.
I smile weakly.
“This is so perfect! You’ll hear from him, I think, sometime this week.”
“Thanks for thinking of me.”
As she opens the door and dances away down the hallway, clearly thrilled with her work, she sing-songs:
“Just be sure to mention me at the wedding!”
Apparently, I have been deemed acceptable and have been recruited for blue-blooded breeding purposes.
And then a horrifying thought occurs to me.
Please, please, tell me that he does not live in that house in Rosedale with his parents.
*AKA “Shit is going down.” “Please pack your Securities Act and go.” “We’re firing Bob and giving you all of his files.” Yeah, I think you get the idea.