November 2005, Beaverton, Oregon

By Jenny Muller

In any office, there are things you learn courtesy of the employee handbook, and there are things your coworkers teach you. Time off should be requested two weeks in advance. Staff meetings are Mondays at 9 a.m. Don’t use the purple mug that says, “World’s #1 Dad” – it’s Rachel’s. And don’t even ask why she has a mug that reads “World’s #1 Dad” – it’s awkward.

Then there are those other rules. The office no-see-ums. The things you’ll learn well after you needed to.

I work at a sports and fitness company. It’s an informal place to work. I mean, we make workout clothes. Even the accountants wear sneakers and tracksuits to the office, so you can believe the laid-back environment is a big plus. There are other perks, too. Free gym shorts, obviously. Office teams that actually win. Onsite gyms worthy of being called gyms, rather than a lone Bowflex dumped in a vacant office.

And there are the athletes.

I’d been with the company for about two months when I had my first encounter. Prior to this, it was hard not to hear the stories as Peter Pan-ish tales of urban myth. Someone in the office next to yours lunched with Jordan. The HR department got pep talks from Sharapova. Someone had a friend who knew this guy who had a cousin. Hard to believe I’d be rubbing elbows with ESPN fodder.

I was in the women’s bathroom reapplying my Ruby Crush #7 after a deliciously greasy burger had rendered it Vaguely Pinkish #0. One of the stalls flushed, and out stepped the biggest hulk of woman I’d ever seen in my life. As intimidating and powerful as every sportscaster had ever described, she looked like Kick, Your and Ass got together and decided to create a club leader.

I was standing in front of one of the most famous, most easily recognizable female tennis players in the world.

Physically, she looked every bit the part of warrior athlete. Huge, expertly sculpted muscles pushed their way through a T-shirt looking very much like it was ready to quit while it was ahead. A fear-inspiring stare gently suggested, “Run. Now.” It was easy to imagine her handshake leading to hospitalized traction.

I can only credit quick-thinking for my actions in those next few critical minutes. “You’re famous!” I bleated obtusely and without losing a beat, I yanked off a foot-long strip of two-ply and offered it gingerly to her. “Sign? Autograph? Me?” I pointed helpfully to myself.

Eyeing me as one might a harmless but pushy mental patient, she produced an easy grin.

“Oooookay,” she said slowly, gently plucking up the proffered hunk of t.p. I clapped enthusiastically. Signing it quickly and efficiently (no rips!), she cautiously handed it back, grinned, then ducked out of the bathroom and out of my life as abruptly as she had entered it.

I gave myself a split second of privacy, then dashed out of the bathroom and down the hall to my coworkers, loitering around the CoffeeGenie. Famous athletes! Here! In this building! I breathlessly related the whole story, then flashed my autographed lavatory staple.

The second I waved my two-ply flag, they scattered like startled ants. All of them except my boss. “Is this your way of introducing us to your very unfunny humor?” I blinked back stupidly. Was he not impressed?

“I’m hoping I’ll only need to explain this once. This company was not created to plump up your autograph book. No paparazzi, no press, and absolutely boneheaded employees are to pester our guests. Ever. No matter who they are or what they’ve just won. Are you very clear on that?”

I stared lamely at the now shame-riddled toilet paper. Yes, I was very clear on that. “And I highly recommend keeping this small conquest to yourself,” he added unnecessarily. Suddenly the FBI couldn’t get this story out of me.

Thus, my first unwritten company rule. I have since gone on to learn several valuable lessons via the “Uh, I didn’t know that” format. I have learned that even casual environments require etiquette. I’ve learned wearing sweats to work does not waive professionalism or permit behavior best classified as fan-boyish. I have learned never to take for granted the silent presence of unspoken rules.

And I’ve learned never to collect another autograph. On toilet paper or otherwise.

Jenny Muller’s dad always said a B.A. in English was a lousy idea. But what else do you do if you’re the type who even reads the ingredients on a jar of mustard?

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, February 13th, 2007 | Email This Post

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