At Least Not Before I Draw a Moustache on the Mona Lisa (7/21/08 Monday)

I wasn’t sure what kind of attitude I’d have at work today toward Julie, and that was how I wanted it. No strategy. I decided (yes, a strategy) early in the weekend not to fash myself over it too much and try as best I could to just take it as it came, so Sunday was more than bearable. I decided, also, that I wouldn’t write Sunday, give the neurosis a break.

On my desk this morning was a large gift bag full of Cadfael paperbacks, I laughed and sought out Julie. I found her packing mail, on the floor with the Gayton bin. "Thank you for the Cadfael," I told her bowed head. She looked up and smiled, but looked slightly disoriented. Her mouth opened, but it was a moment before words came out. "Oh. Well, it turned out they weren’t so hard to find. And I thought, ‘I’ll show him.’" "Oh, no," I said, with genuine, guilt, "I didn’t mean to goad you into it," but I was flattered, too, though not so much as amused with her declaration. She then spoke of her need to cull her collection and the difficulty of getting over-attached to her books, but she stopped herself, embarrassed, perhaps, for thinking she was boring me. As I left her she called, "Now, you know I want those books back. I’m just lending them to you." "Oh, I know. The pretty gift bag didn’t fool me." She laughed. What a nice start to the day.

I packed the mail later and looked at the Gayton bin Julie’d been packing. It was as tight and flat as a sealed box. First chance I got I told her, "That Gayton bin is a work of art." I never saw a bigger smile on her face, and I swear her eyes actually twinkled. I continued, "I started to put another book in there, but I just couldn’t. It’s what I hope to attain every time I pack the mail." It wasn’t so thick; I meant every word. She said, slightly abashed, "I’m pretty anal, especially about packing the bins. You’ve probably noticed that by now." I had, but I let it ride. That was the third time I’d heard her refer to herself that way, and it hurt a little to know she thought of herself that way. She may have joked, but it was not something she liked being reminded of.

I’ve not really had a conversation with Julie, when I think about it. I haven’t followed her comments with much more than quips, not built upon them with insight or clarifying questions. I’m still scripting myself, trying to elicit a rise and being satisfied with that small success. I need to listen with not myself in mind, but with the speaker’s words (for this is not a problem limited to my talk with Julie). When Julie trailed off talking about her books, I knew how she felt–boring, lacking confidence in both the content of her speech and the attention of her audience. I’ve been there, go there every day.