Monday mornings, taxes, and Garfield movies: truly three universally despised entities. Perpetually looming, we exist in a state of dread, waiting for them to strike so that we can try to persevere and return to our lives with only minimal post-traumatic stress and consequences from composing and delivering threats against people’s lives.
We all realize Monday mornings are rough, but I believe that some people are blessed with either a degree of narcissism or adult autism that compels them to share the most mundane personal anecdotes from their weekend every week. All of us feign interest and empathize with their ramblings about they were upset that the car wash didn’t honor their expired coupon, but on the inside we’re all realizing how precious life is and that we’re now three wasted minutes closer to death. Frankly, it’s a sweet release when their jowls and tongue tire from spouting such inane stories and I can return to punching data into a machine
Marta, we get it; you’re your own biggest fan, but you don’t seem to realize that your gusto isn’t shared, and is genuinely abhorred, by everyone else in the office. We sit, disinterested, because social norms dictate that we don’t tell you to “kindly shut your pasty food chute before anymore of that linguistic garbage gets in my ears.” No, we are all cowards and have been tolerating Marta for too long to change anything now. It’s become like the constant threat of terrorism, rising gas prices, or Ellen DeGeneres—truly an annoyance we perpetually deal with now.
Strategically, I came in late this Monday and Marta was already into your tirade about an evening out. Three long faces of coworkers surrounded the overly excited Marta, faces like when they open one of those shipping containers filled with starved illegal immigrants trying to come to America. She sees me come in and says that she’ll start the story over so I can hear it all. Fantastic, now there’s blood on my hands. I’m now at fault in these coworkers’ eyes for subjecting them to a second hearing of a story that did not merit a first hearing.
Now Marta does her work on time and, judging by her personal photos, is well-loved by her friends and family, but I’ll be damned if every day her coworkers don’t fantasize about her being punched in the throat and never being able to speak again.
This story has started to drag before it’s even begun. She’s backpedaling with the details of setting the scene. She’s no Quintin Tarantino when it comes to non-linear storytelling, no, she’s just fucking awful at telling the story. Literally describing your routine to get dolled up to go to Chili’s are details that do not need to be included. Also, Chili’s does not warrant looking fancy—I’ve witnessed a man eat there wearing a shirt made from a burlap sack with a child wearing no shoes and nothing but an oversized t-shirt. You don’t need five-inch heels or a dinner jacket to go stuff loaded potato skins into your craw that’s already brimming with ranch dressing, Marta.
Why is she describing the weather and traffic patterns on her drive to Chili’s? This lack of narrative economy is infuriating and I’m just going to mentally check out and think about the effigy of Marta that I’m planning on running over with my car and burning later.
I check back in and she’s ranting about how nice the waitress was being to her husband. Ooof, now she had to bring her weight into it and turn this into a tirade about the unrealistic standards the media sets for women. Stop, just stop talking about your weight like it’s a disability your can’t control, and, please, stop comparing yourself to a civil rights leader again for speaking out on this topic—truthfully, I’m becoming embarrassed to even be associated with you.
I don’t think she realizes how a restaurant or flirting works. When the waitress gives your husband suggestions for salad dressing it’s generally not because she is trying to show him that she is the only one who knows how to satisfy him. And it’s not that she is trying to impose on your relationship built on “action movies, waffles, and quick sex in the dark,” as you so eloquently divulged.
Marta’s becoming animated now, she’s really trying to sell her rage at this “eighteen-year-old hussie who’s trying to turn my beloved neighborhood Chili’s into her personal sex brothel for married men.” I’m not buying Marta’s accusations that the waitress was trying to get her nipple to fall out, or that she was trying to give Marta food poisoning, or had any intent other than describing a specific entrée when she dropped the words “big meat.”
I knew I couldn’t keep listening; I was beginning to fear for the safety of myself and the others in the room. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do and just succumbed to the stress hemorrhage in my stomach before spitting up some blood, excusing myself, and retreating to my car to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.