open letter

An open letter to my liberry coworkers:  I too am sorry I replaced the cool guy at work


It's Sylvia.  Syl-vi-a.
You people have been calling me Cuyler for the last six months, and I'm fed up.
Yes, I too am sorry Cuyler's band got some amount of recognition and moved to Austin.
I too am sorry that you lost the most fun and best looking male in the fiction department, only to receive a 65-year-old woman with asthma and arthritis as his replacement.
But enough is enough.
It's time you come to terms with it.

When you first kept popping by my office in the mornings to greet me with, "What up, Pimp?" and "Rager last night?" it seemed a strange way to greet a grandmother, but I said nothing.  I guess I felt welcomed.  At the White Elelphant Christmas party, it was suspicious that I was the only one not allowed to trade the gift I received, but the skinny jeans and flannel shirt were comfortable enough.  And everyone seemed so pleased when I wore them as a joke the next day, that I just went with it, and bought some more sets.  When our supervisor encouraged me endlessly to get the haircut and let the whisker maintenance go, I didn't quite see the correlation with my job description of ordering large print Amish Romances, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a relief in a way.  Maybe they just want me to be comfortable, I told myself.  Maybe they like me for me without all the make up and razz ma tazz.

But eventually I put two and two together, and I'm ticked, people.
I am 65 years old.  I took this job to supplement my Social Security, not to race book carts.  I don't "do voices."  I don't play the escalator game in front of the desk. I'm tired of looking at the framed picture of Cuyler's girlfriend on my desk - why is that bolted down?  And if the young woman in Children's comes to my office one more time and asks me to teach her the ukulele, I am going to punch her in the spleen.  Yes, I know where the spleen is.  Again, I'm sixty five.

Do not sidle up to me at the Young Adult display and ask me to tell you again about the night I met Bon Iver.  That wasn't me.  Yes, from what I've pieced together, it sounded like a good anecdote, but it was not mine.  Do not remind me of the time I planked for seven minutes in the gap in the check-out desks.  Do I look like I use plank as a verb?  Do not ask me for weed, grass, spliffs, blunts, white girls or dime bags.  Okay, it was misleading that time I said I had a dime bag, but I think we all know it was just a bag of dimes.  Let it go.  I've since researched all of these terms.  Yes, they seem delightful, but we're at a liberry.  Get it together, people.    

So, Monday...
Let me tell you how this is going down.
I'm coming into work.
I'm wearing my casual separates and sensible sandals.
I've burned the flannel and waxed accordingly.
I'm eating my soup in the break room, so don't even ask me to walk six blocks for sushi.
I'm giving you people one more chance, and you better take it.

From now on, Sylvia does Sylvia.