The Thrill of the Zipper

The Mumbler has a business trip. He’s leaving shortly, or so he promises. I’ve heard all of his zippers being zipped, unzipped, re-zipped, ad infinitum. Every time I hear the zip on one of his many bags, I am buoyed, but am deflated again when I realise that he is still at his desk, on the phone or elsewhere inside the hallowed walls of this office. He’s only going to be gone for one day, but it will be the sweetest day in this new year of this new decade.

Tomorrow, I will be spared of his presence in the office, specifically my office (coffee mug in hand, signalling to me that he intends to be stay awhile, even as my heart sinks [and my fists ball up into impotent white stumps]).

I will be spared of his incomprehensible and utterly devoid of humour anecdotes, which only reinforce his standing as king of the asshats. He can grin until his face paralyzes and becomes gangrenous, every word-like utterance that passes his thin, lizard lips hardens my intense dislike of his mumbling ways.

I will be spared expending valuable emotional energy attempting to translate what has come out of his mouth into actual human words from the dialect of a yet-to-be discovered animal hidden deep in the wilds of Borneo.

I will also be spared his need of conversational reciprocation, which (this does not make me proud, but is an essential coping mechanism that I cling to) has descended from actual sentences to yes, no, a simple grunt or furious wag of the head.*

I will be spared the stupid questions/requests (which take approximately twenty three minutes to translate and understand what exactly it is he is after, leaving him thinking that it is, in fact, me that is the moron, when it so clearly is him and his inability to form words. With his mouth. Like normal people.) that he so generously heaps onto my desk without a second thought, because he is very busy and important being busy and important.

I will be spared of hearing his travel itinerary for the next 8 weeks in all of their ever changing glory, due to his being very busy and important. I honestly do not care wether he has a six or eight hour layover in small-town-wherever (for the squillionth itinerary change), except that it means that he will not be here, tormenting me with his incomprehensible gibberish.

I will be spared of my intentional bad behaviour. Talking with my back to someone, texting, taking personal phone calls and making white knuckled fists of rage are not things that I usually do while conversing**. However, his lack of ability to read body language is nearly as sharp as his speaking ability, forcing my hand and requiring me to be increasingly drastic in my non-verbal cues. Short of me telling him (in no uncertain terms) to Fuck Off, I don’t know what more I can do to demonstrate that I do not wish to speak to him.

I will be spared his speakerphone which he insists on using at full volume. I don’t wish to hear the following conversation tomorrow, or ever again, for that matter (despite the effort to create privacy [?] by closing his office door):

Mumbler: Klefg Mmnomi!
translation: Hi Sexy!

Wife of Mumbler: Hi Tiger, what’s going on?

M: Prrrulg mennil ckronck druulger?
translation: what are you wearing?

WoM: ::giggling:: Nothing at all. Just waiting for you to come home.

M: …***

Instead, I will depart from my home tomorrow morning, feeling refreshed and light as a feather with a skip in my step, basking in the knowledge that I will have a quiet, peaceful day. I would rather be alone, worrying about serial killers or random acts of violence than share this office with him while wondering, ‘who hired this guy?’ I will not have to keep my office door shut, pretend to be listing to my ipod or on the phone and making many, many trips out doors to get some relief. I will be able to work at my leisure without the crippling fear and loathing that he will invade my sacred space for a ‘chat’.

Yes, I will love and cherish tomorrow with all of my being. I will marry tomorrow and carry its children. Tomorrow and I will be very happy together.****

From the very depths of a hopeful hell,

Anna

*I will need to abandon the head wagging as this seems to encourage him into prolonged interaction. This flies in the face of an action which is actually very similar to a shaking of the head, as in ‘no’; as in, ‘no, don’t talk to me, king asshat’

**Erm, except as evidenced by this post.

***I confess that I don’t know how the end of these “conversations” go. I make myself pretty fucking scarce (usually wretching in the toilets) because I don’t wish to actually have to fill the prescription for anti psychotics.

**** Until Friday, when he will clumsily destroy my carefully constructed fantasy of an office space filled with clear, crisp annunciation, and non retarded type folk.