Workplace Etiquette

"Emily, have you gained weight? You look good," he said, eyeing me up and down as I came back into my office and handed him the bill.

A flash of white girl weight issue panic iced its way down my spine. I mentally checked myself, scrolling through a roster of potential responses: (a) scream. Just scream incoherently, run around the office. Maybe karate chop the printer that never prints, Chuck Norris style; (b) say, "I think so, and it really bothers me, but thanks for noticing, even though you are my boss and it’s completely inappropriate to comment on my appearance. Since you can barely read, though, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and pretend like that was a well intentioned compliment"; (c) say, "yes, sir, I’m trying to fit in with the culture, but apparently I still have 50 pounds and a diabetes diagnosis to go. Any suggestions?"

I chose (d)."Probably. Thank you. So, go ahead and review that and let me know about any changes you’d like to make," I said, sitting down at my computer.

I sat for a second, looking at my screen. I often wonder if, during one night at a bar while filling out a sweepstakes form I accidentally checked: "Yes, it’s okay to transport me to a small island where I will unwittingly star in a video documentary for inappropriate workplace behavior." I don’t think I did...

Truth be told, I have gained weight. My size four pants don’t fit, my body has curves that my mirror hasn’t witnessed since my return from the patisserie circuit that is Europe, and no, I have not been diligent with my cardio over the past year. There are days when it truly bothers me; I long for the body I had in pictures from last summer, toned from the excessive gym time spent mainly as a distraction from my bar exam flash cards strewn about my bedroom floor. I’ll look at pictures of me, flanked by Sage and Maggie, proudly smiling in my bikini at the Adirondacks. But my waves of panic over my personal appearance are lessening, to a small degree.

"What the hell are you supposed to do here, when there’s no fresh food and it’s a million degrees out?" asks Maggie, peeling herself from my couch to get ice water from the refrigerator. "Think about how active you were in the states, and what everyone does here. You’ll be fine, I promise."

Maggie is known for her candor, whether wanted or not, and it’s one of the things I love most about her. I take her at her word and the balloon of worry, tied around my wrist for safekeeping, begins to deflate.

"Anyway," she proceeds, looking at me over the top of the water bottle, "you were a neurotic mess last summer, totally upset, in a crappy relationship and freaking out about the bar." She did have a point. I can still recall the chalky taste of protein shakes in the morning because my stomach was too acidic to handle anything else, and my feverish bouts on the elliptical trainer to waylay the impacts of the stress of the impending bar and imploding relationship I would have to eventually face at some point. I don’t think I would go back to that place, even if it meant tighter abs.

Bottom line, though, I didn’t go to law school to win beauty pageants, and I didn’t plan my life around becoming a swimsuit model or trophy wife. When considered objectively, aside from being physically fit enough to do the things I love, my weight ranks fairly low on my list of elements crucial to happiness and success in my life. Instead of acquiescing to the fears that often tear through my psyche when confronted with comments about my weight or appearance, I am now beginning to bristle. And all of that prioritization crap aside, my appearance, whether good or bad, is not something that needs to be a subject of discussion at work.

Not to get all Gloria Steinem, but I don’t need this at work, even if it is guised as a compliment. I came into work to draft climate change legislation, not to be praised for my looks, and not to be questioned about my weight.

So what is the point? I wonder this as I stare at the bill on the computer screen, 12 font Times New Roman crap spilling down the page, contained by 1.6 inch gutters, that no one has read but me. This bill probably won’t get passed. If it does, it will be mutilated and torn apart and pieced back together in unrecognizable and ineffective form, its teeth ripped out and auctioned to interested parties to wear on strings around their necks.

I wonder this when I am being berated by a man who is vigorously and unabashedly picking his nose or clipping his nails, accusing our department of making an unforgivable mistake that, well, wasn’t exactly our fault. I wonder this when I am being blatantly stared at by men loitering outside of my apartment building as I walk to get my laundry.

Palau is a co-dependent boyfriend. It insults you and has temper tantrums, desperately needs your help to get by because it wasn’t given the same advantages that you were. It suddenly turns moody and gray, spitting rain inexplicably, pelting your windshield as you bounce and swerve your way back to your apartment. And when it makes you feel so low you are about to leave, it shines ethereal sunlight on you and opens its blue green waves, revealing turtles and sharks and bug eyed napoleon wrasse. And you stay for another week.

You tell your friends and family that you can’t deal with it anymore, the lying, the insults, the underhandedness, and they tell you to just leave. But it’s not that simple. It’s not all bad, you guiltily confess, thinking of the handful of amazing personalities that accompany you on your journeys, the ones who you commiserate with, the ones you make you laugh, the ones you teach you about your life, and who inspire you with theirs. 

I’ll miss Palau, undoubtedly. I’ve had moments in this country that have made me believe that there had to be some greater power creating this universe, when the ocean and sun conspired together to make the most beautiful days I’ve ever witnessed. I’ve met people I couldn’t forget if I tried. But the bottom line is that we just don’t work as a couple, Palau and I. In November, I am scheduled for departure, and when the plane makes its ascent from the patchwork runway, I know I will  thank myself for not believing in long distance relationships.