Today, as one would expect, I spent a fair chunk of my time going about my day-to-day tasks at work. Answering phones, making coffees, greeting clients, picking up ingredients for our Mexican Fiesta tomorrow (you read that right). All of a sudden though, a wild colour grader appeared before me on the stairs.
"Rebbanator!" he said warmly, grinning. We both happen to have names that are quite conducive to nicknames. Or at least, for amusing endings to be tacked on at the end. Rebbatron, Rebasaurus, Rebbaroo, they're all monikers I respond too.
To "Rebbanator!" I would usually respond with some smartass-y or amusing play on "Fergus", which is his name. Any sane person would. Instead, this is the scene on the stairs played out.
That's right.
I responded with my own name. My name. Not his. Not only was I unable to think of a witty response, but I failed at the whole "interaction with a fellow human" game on an excruciatingly further reaching level.
What am I, an attacking Pokemon?
I immediately turned bright red and attempted to cover up my apparent retardation with something along the lines of "HAHAHAHA. IT'S FUNNY BECAUSE I MEANT TO SAY YOUR NAME BUT THEN I SAID MY NAME, HAHAHAHAHA."
The co-worker in question sort of seemed unsure as to how to respond so I flung myself down the remaining stairs and hid at my desk. Here I was, thinking I'd maybe convinced the office that I was somewhat cool, that I'm in fact loud and hilarious despite what those initial weeks of being monosyllabic and awkward as hell must have made them think.
Tomorrow I'm going to have to bust out some real Oscar Wilde shit as far as charismatic conversation goes to undo this damage, I tell you what.
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