How to die of embarrassment in front of a man named Dwight.

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I work with a staff of about twenty-five people. Suffice it to say, the work we do is “non-profit.” In any case, I’m the head of our publications department. Translation? I am a desk monkey. That seems like a pretty safe job, right? As long as I send emails to the right people and don’t accidentally cc the wrong ones, and make sure that I don’t print documents that have typos/double entendres I can’t get into a lot of trouble, right?

Au contraire.

If there is a way to make a situation awkward or embarassing (usually for me) I will find it. I’m resourceful like that. The following is an incident that took place in the very (very) recent past.

I, aka “Desk Monkey,” was dutifully sitting at my desk. I had proofread a stack of documents as tall as my mother (thank God she’s short). I had sent four documents to pre-flight, made necessary adjustments and sent them on to Wes, my printer. I had finished a draft of the new web-page design. I had converted forty (FORTY) graphics with various extensions to .jpgs. (Please take a moment to notice here that I was an English major and most of the tasks listed above are related to graphic design and computer science. I am SO not qualified for this.)

Having plowed through those tasks, and noticing that I had successfully completed all my time-sensitive tasks for the next two weeks, I logged on to the Internet to search for a white cotton slip. I’ve been needing one to wear under a bridesmaid’s dress for a wedding I’m in this summer. Among the list on the Google search page was a site that allowed you to compare prices of similar items so that you can quickly find the best deal. They even show pictures of the items they are comparing. Frugal and efficient, sign me up.

The website turned out to be a little loose in its interpretation of the phrase “white cotton slip.” Towards the end of the list of “suggested products” list, there were several crotch-shots of men wearing whitey-tighties and bikini briefs. Some of those briefs were absurdly small. Just at that moment our tech-services guy walked into the room. His name’s Dwight (not kidding). Dwight is a very nice man with wire rim glasses that make his eyes look three times their natural size who always wears the same blue, linen blazer and brown loafers that look as if he polishes them daily. His hair is thinning in such a way that you know he’ll never be bald, but eventually he’ll have a comb-over.

 

“Uh, I–I just … I’m hear to talk about … well, Jim’s printer is down, and uh–” he stammered.

I frantically clicked at the little red X in the upper right hand corner of my screen, missing it several times in my panicked state, which of course made things look MUCH worse.

“Jim’s printer?” I prompted when the screen full of men in (almost) all their glory had closed.

“His printer is down and I wanted to know if I could sync his computer with your printer just until Monday.”

“Sure.” I could feel that my cheeks were hot, but I decided to play it cool. After all, maybe he hadn’t noticed. He was standing at such an angle that it was possible that he hadn’t seen anything, I reasoned with myself.

Ten minutes later I was still blushing. I have to deal with this, I thought. I got up and found Dwight slumped over his laptop and began my explanation.

“Dwight? Um, a few minutes ago when you walked into my office … well, I don’t know if our web filter’s down or something, but I just wanted you to know that what I was looking at came up by accident.” 

Dwight looked up at me through his glasses. “What?”

“The pictures … of the men’s underwear. I just wanted you to know that …” Dwight’s expression was still blank. I was beginning to sense the intense awkwardness of the situation. “I mean I didn’t mean to be … I think the filter’s messed up,” I finished lamely.

“It won’t let you look at men’s underwear?”

“No, I don’t WANT to look at men’s underwear.”

“You don’t want to look at men’s underwear,” he repeated, eyeing me suspiciously. “I’m confused.”

Back-peddling was out of the question. “Did you see what was on my screen when you walked into my office a few minutes ago?”

Dwight shook his head and shrugged a little. My face was so red it was purple. The world’s biggest eggplant.

“Well, I was searching for something and it brought up pictures of men’s underwear and I was afraid that you had seen them and thought I was looking up … pictures like that on purpose.”

Dwight stared blankly at me for another minute and then his mouth began to twitch. “That’s the funniest thing that’s happened to me in weeks,” he said, dryly. “Can I tell it at the staff party?”

I sighed with relief and started chuckling. “Sure, I guess … wait, NO! No, I don’t think everyone would appreciate that. Just … just, can we keep that to ourselves?”

Dwight shrugged again. “If you want. Boy, if you hadn’t said anything about it, I wouldn’t have had a clue. I couldn’t see your computer screen from where I was standing. Thanks for telling me. I’m going to have a good laugh about this later.” Apparently Dwight only laughs off the clock.

“Well, I have to get back to work.” I made a hasty escape, mentally kicking myself for opening my big fat mouth. Why. WHY do I try to make things less awkward? It only ever makes things worse. Will I NEVER learn?

 

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