Of work and love lives

I love work conversations. I mean really, really love them. They're ways for co-workers to bond, breaking past the "Jill, would you mind faxing this for me," or "What's the status on our Chatterbox shipment?" and into the realm of actual friendship.

Of late, many of our work conversations have turned to the subject of love lives, specifically the love lives of the daughters of my co-workers. One in particular has been having a rough time; the fellow she's in love with rarely contacts her, but when he does, he makes everything entirely confusing.

So today, as she related the latest episode in her daughter's confusing & painful love life, my poor coworker was reduced to tears as she described the warring between her desire to encourage her daughter to be completely done with this guy and her desire to see the two resolve their issues and finally come together.

Alas. I sat there and listened and made small noises of sympathy and (I hope) consolation, all the while feeling lost and burdened myself. I felt so sad, as if I shared with this daughter that sense of endless waiting, painful anticipation burning and tingling at your fingertips like flesh that has stayed too long in one position. I felt sad too that I couldn't express how I felt. I'm not sure why I couldn't share it; it just didn't seem quite the appropriate place to do it. I didn't feel it would be appropriate to pipe up at the end of the conversation and say, "Wow. She has it rough. And gosh--I'm pretty lonely too."

So instead I turned back to my computer and sighed a lot and put my hand to my forehead and in all other ways convinced myself that I was acting a great drama with myself as a lead. But the sorrow was genuine. And pervasive and persistent and troubling.

Darn.