There is a farewell dinner happening at this moment for someone I don’t really know.
This happens all the time. I moved to Tampa 15 months ago, and still don’t know anyone other than my supervisor, a handful of fellow linguists, and a couple of the most regular clients. Besides the fact that I’m an introvert, I split my week between the Tampa and St. Petersburg offices, which also keeps me from spending much time with anyone.
People seem to be retiring every couple of weeks. I get e-mails constantly announcing where to contribute to farewell gifts, where dinners will be held, send farewell letters to so-and-so, don’t forget to sign the card.
Today it’s one of the cleaning ladies. She has been here for 30 years. I didn’t know her name before I saw the poster announcing her retirement. She probably knows me as “third cubicle, white dude with ponytail who occasionally thanks me in Spanish.”
I could go enjoy the potluck food, but that would mean rubbing shoulders with a bunch of other people that I don’t know, saying goodbye to yet another person I don’t know, and not eating the lunch my wife lovingly packed for me that I didn’t eat yesterday because we had a medical appointment.
I don’t know.