Hi!
It's me, Lindsay. Yes, that's right. Lindsay. You may not have realized my name is not The Temp or That New Girl, but it's true. My parents did not, in fact, name me after someone who doesn't tend to hold down a job for very long, and thus flits from office to office chasing a meager paycheck.
So, yeah. Lindsay.
I've been here for a couple weeks, and am slated to stick around for at least the next six months, so I'm starting to wonder why no one is talking to me.
I get it, kinda. Friendliness is a lot of work. Believe me, I know. For the last two weeks I've had this permasmile on my face, because I'm not yet comfortable enough to be sour. But the truth is, I'm not really all that friendly. Usually people know that after they get to know me a bit, but we're not there yet. I can tell you that in friendliness' place, I'll offer happy hour plans and dirty jokes. Out of earshot of HR, of course.
Or, maybe you're on to this friendliness absence. I complain that no one really talks to me, but admittedly, I think the one person who does speak to me is pretty creepy. That's a pretty bitchy default opinion, I realize, so I guess I can't blame you if you're deterred by my bitchiness. But certainly you think he's creepy too, no? Should we discuss this?
Is it because I'm awkward? This is fair enough, too, I suppose. My precarious perch right next to the copier grants the opportunity to greet you all, which I try to do with the aforementioned permasmile. To the one person who did stop to chat that one time, I'm sorry it got weird. You said, "I bet it's pretty annoying that everyone probably stands here and talks to you while making copies." I too-loudly responded, "NO! No one talks to me! It's okay! HAHAHAhaha." I realize that made me sound unstable, but I hadn't spoken in hours and was caught off guard. I panicked and I'm sorry.
Maybe it's because you're afraid I'll take your lunchtime seat in the break room. I get that this is your one hour to yourself during the day, and you simply want to spend it jammed in to one of the long tables eating leftover pizza with your favorite co-workers. That message was loud and clear the day I accidentally entered the break room while looking for the restroom. Everyone's silent glare marked your individual lunch table territory like a dog peeing in the yard. Noted. It's cool, though. I eat lunch in my car everyday listening to NPR and reading my Twitter feed, and yes this is the grown-up equivalent to taking a cafeteria tray into the bathroom stall. Truth be told, though, I've come to like this routine so your seat is safe.
Honestly, I don't know why you're not talking to me, but I suppose the ball is in my court just as much as yours. I could go out of my way to speak first, but I'm just a bit uncomfortable. Unlike you, I haven't been coming to this place for the better part of the past decade, and don't know the deal. As soon as you open that door though, I'll totally blaze right through it. And then I'll wipe this smile right off my face.
Yours in TPS Reports,
Lindsay
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