How was your weekend? Seriously, though. How was your weekend? Didn’t you see me wink? Don’t play dumb with me. I’m not asking for some politically correct, safe answer that plays it straight down the middle. I need to know some details of what went on.
You see, for your average late-twenties coworker, life now involves baby showers, engagement parties, and dinners with in-laws. We have weddings, the first four of which were fun, but now it’s just getting ridiculous. And if the band doesn’t play “Shout,” I’m shit-talking the reception to anyone who asks. So, when you walk through that door Monday morning, puffy-eyed and late, I know that you had an awesome weekend — a weekend that didn’t include a trip to IKEA, or a three-hour “thank you” card writing session. Nope. I know you went out, drank a bunch, creeped babes, woke up in a ditch, or did something along those lines. So don’t tell me you sat at home watching Netflix alone all weekend. It insults my intelligence.
I just need you to pull back the curtain a little bit and give me, your late-twenties mentor, some fucking details. Times haven’t changed that much since I was your age. Believe it or not, I was once twenty-three and single, and I did some wild shit. Not, like, accidentally-kill-a-hooker wild, but we got after it. These days, you really have no excuse for strolling into the office with no stories. There’s a fucking app called Tinder, and yeah, I’m aware of it. At a minimum, you should be pulling creep moves on this wild fuck app all weekend and then telling me all about it. When you somehow manage to bring some seven home with you from the bar at the Radisson, I want to know about it. Show me some pictures — I’m not here to judge you. Everyone’s woken up next to a water buffalo before. That’s just part of the game.
Young ladies: I need to hear from you, too. I know there are some things you’re not comfortable sharing with a mature, male coworker, but if you’re dating some guy, I feel like I should know about it. Show me what he looks like, and I’ll make an on-the-spot judgment about his character. Sure, nine times out of ten I’m going to tell you that he looks like a real douche, but you need to hear me out. As a married 29-year-old, I’ve seen my fair share of ass-clowns. Have you ever been to one of those “young professionals” meetings? It’s try-hard central. I know how to spot one, and I cannot in good faith allow you to see some guy who thinks that wearing a skinny tie is acceptable formal attire.
Finally, I think you need to realize something: I’m not a narc. If you got weird and decided to smoke DMT, I’d love to hear all about your voyage to the center of the universe. Just because I make a little bit more money than you doesn’t mean I’m going to take this info up the chain. Quite the opposite, actually. Did you get ahold of some molly this weekend? Yeah, I know what that is, dick. Tell me what it was like. I missed the boat on that stuff, and you need to let me know what all the fuss is about. And if nobody’s calling it molly anymore, and I sound like a tool saying that, please fill me in. Don’t let your boy embarrass himself in front of the other kids in the office.
I’m done, man. There’s nothing left to say to you. Just remember that this work relationship we have going is a two-way street. When your mailbox starts blowing up with save the dates, baby shower invites, or, heaven forbid, a baby gender reveal party, I’ve got a list of excuses that I’m willing to share. If you knock up some random you met at the bar, or if you’re arrested after happy hour for urinating in public, I have your back. So you might as well get used to me living vicariously through you. Now, please show me those pictures that girl from last weekend sent you. .