Say What?

Many years ago I worked with a woman named Sharon.  Sharon provided administrative support to a posse of a half-dozen or so city planners, and she reminded me a bit of Herb Tarlek’s wife.  (Remember?  From WKRP in Cincinnati?)  She spoke in a sing-songy voice and had a bit of a grandmotherly vibe, despite the fact that she and her husband — a lifelong employee of the US Postal Service — never actually had kids of their own. I remember that Sharon had a seasonal part-time job down at the mall  playing the role of one of Santa’s helpers.  It was the perfect role for her.  Perfect.

It’s a testament to her professionalism that in all the years that we worked together — and we worked closely during the hectic times of the Bay Area dot com development boom  — I only saw her crack maybe two or three times.  And then that practiced polite tone fell aside and she’d march off cussing rather loudly, not quite under her breath.

For some reason, Sharon popped into my head this afternoon.  I think it’s because I was reading Dooce’s birth story, which included numerous references to early contraction pains that she wasn’t able to accurately identify at first.  And this reminded me of one peculiar moment with Sharon, one that I’ve never quite been able to understand.

One relatively calm morning at work Sharon came into my office to let me know that she would have to be going home early.  “I’m not feeling well,” she said.  And then she leaned in a little closer and lowered her voice to a whisper.  “I have crabs…”  She gestured a bit as she said this, pointing down there.

Crabs?  Really?  How… out of character, to say the least.   And really, talk about over-sharing…  I nodded quickly and told her that I hoped she felt better soon, and she was off.

Now, ten years later, it occurs to me that I may have misheard her.  Not crabs.  Cramps. That makes much more sense.  All this time I guess I had thought that maybe there was another potentially seedier side to Sharon.  Maybe Sharon had a pair of black pleather pants buried deep in the back of her closet.  Maybe she was on a first name basis with all the Doobie Brothers.

It’s all so ridiculous.  I feel somehow that I owe her a bit of an apology for having “misunderestimated” her (as Dubya would say)…

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