Earlier today I encountered a coworker fleeing to the restroom. This is behavior I recognize as either being driven by oneís emotions or bowels. Less eloquently put, I thought she either was going to burst out in tears or take a shit.
Turns out, there is another reason to bolt to the bathroom.
As she stood at the sink wiping her visibly red and watery eyes, I quietly did my business and proceeded to wash my hands, like 95% of the females at my office do instinctually. And, Elizabeth, I am talking the kind of hygiene that involves soap, lather, and a good solid rinse.
Now, I donít really know this weepy coworker, but a wave of compassion hit me and I found myself asking her in a small, concerned-sounding voice, "You okay?"
She glanced at me with her good eye -- a matted paper towel compress firmly planted on her left eye socket -- and said: "Yes."
"I was eating spicy Dorritos at my desk and one flew up and hit me in the eye."
My reaction was to laugh, but instead I went with, "That sucks."