In the words of my good friend, Stiller
A few years ago, while navigating my way through yet another in a long line of depressingly long and overwhelmingly single Valentine's Days on which I lamented about commercial holidays, Mia Wallace and I discussed the expectations and insincerity of said holidays. My point was that flowers on Valentine’s Day, although nice, were expected and therefore lacked the sincerity of flowers on any other day.
To those who will listen and even those who have grown tired of listening, I voice similar frustrations every year around the December holidays. I think it’s great when people donate money to charity, but where are all the donations when the fat man in a Santa Claus hat isn’t begging for them with a bell outside the local mall? Why is it that most people need the holidays to feel charitable? It’s because of this lack of January-November charity that I often doubt the sincerity of those giving money into the big red December can, including myself.
One of my pet peeves in this world is people who do things not because they want to, but rather because they feel it is expected. I don’t like it that we live in a society that conditions women to think unshaven legs are less desirable than shaven ones; that conditions men to think crying is a sign of weakness; that conditions Christians to think God cares whether or not you’re wearing a tie in church; that conditions people to think piercings are acceptable only on the ear lobes of a woman; that conditions men to think that anything less than a dozen red roses hand-delivered February 14 is not acceptable; that conditions women to think anything less than a dozen red roses hand-delivered February 14 is not love; etc.
(In an effort to be as sincere as is humanly possible, this issue is one I overanalyze every day of my life and so, in an ironic twist that would make any writer proud, like the PC person so aware of race issues he thinks about the color of one’s skin enough to make him racist, I’m probably less sincere because of my overanalyzation. But that’s for another entry.)
I want to address what’s really on my mind and what inspired this rant: the office card. Like clockwork, at least once a week, someone from my office will approach my desk and declare in a hushed, matter-of-fact voice what kind of card they're presenting me as well as the reason for said card. (“Card for Bob. Grandmother died.”) At this point, I have approximately 5 to 10 minutes to determine the person about whom they're speaking, relate somehow to the event that inspired the card, and figure out what kind of short message I should write in it.
As an English major, and as someone who just finished venting about the insincerity associated with expectations, it’s not surprising when I say that I feel the need to be original in my office card entry and so, my first action is to scan the card to see what has already been written so that I avoid duplicating anyone. If it’s a celebratory card (like a birthday or wedding), that means I have to avoid jokes about working too much, working too little, drinking too much, drinking too little, and not “doing anything I wouldn’t do.” For mourning cards, that means I must avoid “thinking of you,” being “so sorry,” and including family “in my thoughts” or “prayers.”
It is at this point in the office card process that I typically suffer from an extreme writer’s block and the stress that accompanies all the pressure associated with performing a literary miracle in such an intimidatingly small timeframe, and I panic and write something either incredibly boring or so random it makes no sense (like the times I quote an imaginary friend named Stiller). For obvious reasons, I typically write the less-inspiring boring stuff in the mourning cards, and save the lines filled with randomness for the celebratory cards. Regardless of whether or not I find something original to say, I always end up struggling with my fear of insincerity so much so that I’m nearly always insincere.
And so, consequently, while a coworker struggles to deal with the loss of her father this week, instead of knowing how devastated I am for her because I can barely deal with the thought of that very same inevitable loss in my life, all she will know is that I am sorry and that her family is in my thoughts.