There But For The Grace Of God...

Or, Other People's Misfortune I Didn't Wish For

One of my co-workers is engaged in a major verbal brawl right now, on the phone, in his office. Even with the door closed I can hear everything he's saying. He is very very angry right now. I'm not sure what about, though. At first I thought he was mad at the payroll department about his latest paycheck. But as the level of discourse got more angry and intense, and the language got more and more... expressive... I've come to the conclusion that he's probably arguing with his ex-wife. Probably about alimony payments.

I know, I know. It's bad to eavesdrop. A classy Edwardian gentleman (fig. 1) would no doubt pretend to have heard nothing at all. But this is the Future! Privacy is obsolete! Blogging is a Gibson! The Internet means your business on other people's computers! Besides, a classy Edwardian gentleman would probably know how to smack people with his cane (fig. 2). I don't even own a cane...

...

Hrm.

Actually, I do own a cane. Maybe I should consider becoming a classy Edwardian gentleman, instead of an inconsiderate and narcissistic postmodern blogger.

But that's not the point.

The point is, I can only imagine the kind of hell this guy must be going through. Sitting in the ER yesterday, I theorized to Mrs. Container that my chest pain was Time-Traveling Heartbreak. You know how it is. At some point in the future, your True Love runs off with a murder of crows, and it breaks your heart, which then travels back in time, so you feel the pain in the past. Not the kind of thing that shows up on X-rays or blood tests. But it does show up in ER waiting rooms when you're really really bored and none of your symptoms match anything Mrs. Container can find by searching the Internet from her cell phone (it's the Future, I tell you! Gibsons!).

But hilarious as such a diagnosis is, the reality is far from it. I'm just really really glad that my True Love is the way she is, and is such a good teammate. I'm glad I can look forward to a future free of the kinds of conversations--the kinds of horrible, awful, no good very bad feelings--my co-worker is having right now.

Hrm.

I wonder what a classy Edwardian gentleman would have for lunch...

(Figures omitted on account of my Google-fu is weak. Weak! Instead, I offer Amazon's search results for "the modern gentleman".)