You're Not the Earth. I'm Not the Sun. Stop Orbiting.

Dear Coworker,

Hi. Hello. How are you? What's up? Can I help you with something? All good? Hello again. I mean...still. A continuous hello to you, sir.

You're still here. Why are you still here? Walk away. You can end all this. Just walk away.


This is a combination of the internal monologue and outward conversation I've had with you for the last  couple of weeks. Some of it surely sounds familiar (if a bit repetitive at this point), but I feel like these things have to be said. Not because I love the small talk, mind you, but because nothing makes the fact that your chin is touching my shoulder for about 3 hours each day more awkward than complete silence.

So I fill in the gaps. The conversational gaps, anyway. Not the physical gaps. Because there aren't any to fill. Because the front of your shirt is apparently stitched to the back of mine.

I know I smell nice. My naturally intoxicating musk is no doubt a cause of internal celebration for you, seeing as most things you smell around here are--to understate this in the nicest way--displeasing. And I realize everything I do is so extraordinarily educational and entertaining ("extra edu-tainment" you might call it) that you don't want to risk walking away for a moment only to find out later that you missed some monumental musing of mine that would have changed your life's path forever.

But you still can't hover over me like you're the puppeteer and I'm the marionette. (I know hand puppet would have been a more apt analogy here, but I couldn't stand the imagery.) Besides, you can't be the puppeteer if you know much less than the puppet! (Boy this analogy really got away from me. Please stick around despite this series of digressions. Not that you wouldn't anyways, seeing as how you're probably hovering over me as I write this!)

Let this letter serve as the nicest possible way for me to ask you to keep your distance. Step off my heels. Steer clear of my personal space. Stay out of my bubble. Just...go away.

Or else my bubble might...my intimate zone isn't for...something something personal boundaries pun. I CAN'T FOCUS ON ANALOGIES WITH YOUR BREATH ON THE BACK OF MY NECK!

Spatially aware,
Your coworker

1 comment:

  1. OMG I totally get this! When I worked for a retail chain of hardware stores, we hired a new woman to work the registers and I had to train her. She was an Indian lady and thus had absolutely NO IDEA of personal space/bubble/boundaries. Every time I turned around I literally whacked some part of her anatomy with my elbow! EVERY TIME! And she would just mumble and step back maybe an inch. I began grinding my teeth because no matter how many times I explained to her that she needed to stay at least arms length away from me (at a MINIMUM) she would always creep back to within inches of me. In the end I started treating her a bit like an errant puppy. I'd stick her in front of a terminal, tell her to stay and then back away slowly. Then I'd watch her and if she gave the slightest hint of moving, I'd repeat the stay command. Tedious, but at least it gained me a LITTLE room to breathe.