Repressed rage

It's come to my attention that I have some serious repressed anger issues.

I was sitting at work this morning in my quiet, empty corner — I like to come in when no one is here because it gives me ample opportunity to scour the Internet with little distractions — when suddenly I heard our sports editor ambling his way down the back staircase (very loudly, I might add). I can always tell it's him — right from that very top step — so I did what any girl hoping to stave off unwanted conversation would do: picked up my work phone and dialed my friend Jenn's extension. After five minutes of mindless chitchat, I put the receiver back on its cradle, picked up my iPod earbuds and settled in to work.

Not two seconds after I got off the phone, though, Sporty turned around and began what I can only imagine is his version of flirting: giggling like a school girl while trying to expel coherent words amid sudden, heavy gasps. Every morning it's the same routine, going on four years now.

What's a girl to do?

Because Sporty sits behind me facing the opposite direction, when he starts in on this daily barrage, I have the luxury of a) rolling my eyes while laughing internally and responding in short, monosyllabic syllables or b) pretending I'm rocking out to iPod and ignoring him altogether.

Lately, though, I find myself getting more and more irritated with him. (If you saw/heard him, you'd understand, I'm really not this big of a bitch.) He's like a five-year-old trapped in a 31-year-old's body, I swear. At first I felt sympathy for him because he seemed innocent enough — like a giant oaf — but don't let that feigned naivete fool you. He's up to something. I just haven't figured out what yet.

So I sit here, day after day, playing the same scene over and over (and over ... and it's the same thing in reverse when I leave for the day!) and I can't help but get irritated. I can actually feel my blood boiling, which is a feat in itself because the air conditioner down here keeps the office so cold, penguins could live comfortably, but I digress.

I am, or at least I try to be, a nice girl. My mother raised me to be polite and amenable, after all. So I slap on a smile and try to ignore the rising ire in my chest, though with each passing day, it's getting harder and harder to stomach.

The other editors at my company think I'm overreacting. They think he's harmless and cute (and what's worse, they actually solicit information from him whereas I avoid his comments like the plague). They don't have to spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week in his presence. I'm sure if they did, they'd resort to fake phone calls and earphones too. I feel like I'm ready to snap...and I would if I didn't exercise so much self-restraint.

Like I said.... I'm repressed.