So, I work at a startup. Our office is the spare bedroom of my boss’s house, though we will FINALLY have an office at the end of this week. When people ask what it’s like to work out of my boss’s house I tell them it’s exactly what you would think it’s like when your boss is a bachelor in his late 30s.
A couple months ago I showed up at his house right as “a successful first date” was making her exit. There was a foot of snow on the ground as we all hunched in the foyer– me removing my shoes as she put hers on– avoiding eye contact like it was some sort of shameful shift change.
“Aussa,” my boss said out of no where, “this is… Emily.”
She extended her arm, and we shook hands.
Twenty seconds later I was hiding in the office, telling everyone on Facebook what had happened. You all informed me I had all manner of bodily fluids and STDS crawling on my skin and needed to immediately wash my hands. I did so, and dismissed the whole thing as a good story.
But then there was last Friday. I showed up early because we had a 9AM webinar and my computer requires half an hour to turn itself on. Like a 19-year-old college dormmate, I texted him that I was coming over, just to be safe. There was no reply and no tie hanging on the front door knob so I used my key and let myself in.
It seemed like a normal morning— he met me in the foyer and we stood in the dining room, fiercely complaining about everything wrong with everything. Then I heard the sounds of movement. Human movement. In the bedroom.
Like a betrayed Bridget Jones in her playboy bunny outfit, I asked the damning question.
“Is there someone else here?”
He didn’t need to answer, because yet another successful first date walked right out, demanding bagels. Once again, he introduced us. She paused in her pouting and extended her hand.
So I shook it. Again.
While they debated whether she should Uber or he should take her for bagels, I excused myself to “log into the webinar,” AKA text Alex and update Facebook.
Except I didn’t send the text to Alex. I sent it to my boss.
I had three choices:
- Pretend I did it on purpose. It was a joke! I was just venting to him about boundaries.
- Apologize. Tell him I’m not as bitter as I sound.
- Street Aussa the shite out of that shite.
Two seconds after hitting send, I walked back into the dining room.
“Where’s your phone?”
He looked confused.
“In my bedroom,” he said.
Gross. The bedroom. Scorched earth. Contamination Zone. But a hero has to go where the glory is.
“I need you to bring it to me, upside down.”
He still looked confused.
“I sent you a message meant for Alex.”
He walked into the bedroom, retrieved his phone, and handed it to me.
“Should I really be doing this?” he asked.
I could see my snide text at the top of his notifcations. I swiped right and handed it back to him.
“Put in your password.”
“This is a trusting moment,” I said.
He typed in his password and I opened his messages, scrolled to mine, deleted it, and handed the phone back to him.
He just stared at me, like he wasn’t exactly sure what just happened. Hopefully we can keep it that way.
Have you ever accidentally texted the wrong person? What’s the weirdest thing you know about a coworker’s sex life? Do you try to maintain boundaries at work?
Want to keep in touch? Find me on Facebook.