After a week of shaky knees and pissed off shins, I’m finally able to run again today! I used to look at the treadmill with a resigned disdain, like something that had to be done because if I ignored it again, I’d throw up in the middle of a 5K. But now it’s something I actually want to do, because a) I saw my race photos and they’re all downshirt shots of me crawling out of a mudpit, which make me look like an enormous round-shouldered boob monster and no you can’t see them, and b) I like it.  It’s a shame that I’ll probably have to sell the treadmill when we move, because finding a place with our own basement isn’t looking incredibly likely. At least I’ll have the motivation to run outside by then, and no, I’m not just talking about getting to buy all new layering clothes and hoodies. OH, THE HOODIES.

Did I tell you that my boss knows about the move? I didn’t tell her. I will, but certainly not a month and a half in advance, considering any number of things could happen in that timespan to make tentative plans disappear and definite plans hazy. No, my boss knows because Shit Sandwich told her, just as he told a roomful of company people recently. I’m guessing he conjectured it based on the title of a group I created on Facebook. The group is viewable by invitees only, but that didn’t stop him from seeing it on someone else’s activity, then taking the name (“Road Trip Music Co-op, St. Louis to Seattle”) and telling my boss that I’m moving away and have scheduled myself a going away party (I’m not). Shit Sandwich did this because he’s a shit sandwich, and because he has nothing better to do with his time. No, really, he doesn’t. He certainly doesn’t do any actual work, at least if my previous experience with him as well as the feedback of others who currently do is to be believed (it is). Absent of work, Shit Sandwich chooses to spend his time on rumors, either because he’s acting maliciously or because he has this ass-kissing way of running to other people’s management like an exceptionally dumb dog. Here’s your slippers, master, and here’s your paper, and I pooped on the rug but then I ate it, and did you hear about this?

This is why Shit Sandwich told my boss that I’m moving almost two months before the projected date. Nevermind that it wasn’t even decided then. Nevermind that I’m capable of doing it myself. Nevermind that it’s in no way his business. Nevermind that everything he says gets back to me anyway, because acting like a shit sandwich doesn’t engender anyone’s loyalty to you. Nevermind that his brand of gossip-mongering-to-affect-someone’s-employment is going straight to HR.

Until that hammer comes down, I’ll continue doing my job like always, and enjoying the conspiratorial eye-rolling that takes place among approximately 95% of people in my office who have any contact with Shit Sandwich at any point during their day. I might be giving up three weeks of vacation by leaving, but at least I’m not a widespread joke.

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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