Picture me at work today, on break in a staff room. I’m sat with a really quiet co-worker (we’ll call her ‘person A’), one who is only in the country when she’s not out living abroad and doing missionary work, and I start babbling on about making decorations for an event and how another person who was helping wasn’t really getting the crafty bit down. I am a crafty person but this other person (say, ‘person B’) gave up on the project pretty quickly after attempting to replicate my swift success.
Now back to the staff room. So the topic of the decor came up and not wanting to talk trash about the end result achieved by person B – and feeling rather self-conscious about the potential words that could slip from my too-often sailor’s tongue in this uncorrupted creature’s presence – I said, in a good-natured context, that person B’s craft turned out poopy.
You read that right. Poopy. In my head, I saw another me leap out onto the staff room table, grab me by the shoulders and squeal “Did you just say POOPY? Are you six years old or what?”
I’m not sure when my command of vocabulary left the building, but it clearly left me with little to work with in social situations.
I am a dweeb of the highest order and am embarrassingly inoffensive when necessary.
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