An email popped up in my inbox from a single sender requesting a favor.
“Hey Mari,” it read. “I need a favor.”
And it went on and on about some really boring shit that I’m not going to tell you about because it will literally put you to sleep. Literally. Alarm. Snooze. Repeat.
But just as my eyelids were feeling heavy, the person closed their note with an ominous, “Let us know if you have any questions.”
Let us know if you have any questions?
I suspected the emailer forgot to copy someone on this note. A silly, but common, oversight when operating at a million miles a minute. And I didn’t give it much thought.
Later that day I met with that same person, face to face, with no one else around. And out of this person’s mouth came, “We will pull a report.”
I politely let them finish their thought before asking, “Who is pulling the report?”
To which they responded, “We will.”
We will? Does this mean I have to sit there while this person mundanely types at their keyboard creating some godforsaken pivot table because they have codependency issues?
Or is this their pompous way of asking me to pull the report because they are a direct descendant of the Earl of Downton Abbey and, therefore, entitled to use the royal ‘we’?
Then I thought that perhaps this could be a more serious issue. One that involved the health and well-being of this person.
A few weeks ago I learned all about dermoid cysts, not from watching some horrifying Discovery Channel program, but from my niece who had one silently growing inside of her. Like something out of the mind of Sir Ridley Scott, this thing was big and gross and had hair.
Hair I tell you.
Luckily, they removed the watermelon-sized growth without complication and, more importantly, before it fully hatched into an evil Gremlin.
But, what if this person, by some weird twist of gross-tumor-fate, also had one of these cysts growing inside? Only theirs was inoperable, forcing them to carry around the twin they swallowed in the womb for the rest of their life. Or lives.
Therein lies the exact problem. Could they technically be two people?
It wouldn’t be too inconceivable that the guilt of their gluttony had led them to not only count themselves as two people, but also attribute certain characteristics to the alien egg inside of them. For all I know their madness had led them to believe that the inoperable monster is a wiz at creating reports.
And I certainly would not blame them for using we to avoid the potentially embarrassing conversation that would go something like, “…we, meaning my insanely scary dermoid cyst and I, will work to get that report over to you in a timely manner.”
For a few moments, I was placated by this idea. I’ve seen Harry Potter, I know how demanding parasitic beings can be. You end up having to carry them around on the back of your head and covering them up with a turban so they can get their evil-doing on.
But just for a few moments.
Instead of letting it all go, I insisted one more time by asking firmly and directly in the hopes of getting a clear indication as to who the hell was going to pull this now embittered report.
“Just to be clear,” I said. “Am I pulling the report or are you pulling the report?”
“I’m pulling the report,” they responded.
Making it crystal clear that they are in fact an overbearing ego maniac who probably did eat their twin in the womb, but on purpose.