Dessert the Cause, People

Today is the VP in my office’s 61st birthday. Drat.

It’s not that I’m against the VP getting older, that’s cool with me. Actually, he’d probably be disappointed if time was suspended at his age, as his projected timeframe of retiring in a few years would get put on hold while his body wouldn’t be getting any younger. And everyone is entitled to celebrate their ability to continue to exist at least one day per year, and I would want no part in withholding his. After all, there’s little chance for promotion when you start messing with the space-time continuum. Look what happened to Marty McFly in BttF II. He got fired by the bassist from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And I’m not against some generous soul in the office slaving over a lukewarm stove the night before to present the Birthdayed One with a fitting cake tribute, either. I’m all for cake. It’s the perfect dessert that can’t come in “the Big Bowl O’” form. And since dessert rarely falls in mid-afternoon, halfway between lunch and dinner, it makes a good snack that can propel office morale through the end of the day. Yes, cake is good.

So what causes my abhorrence to our elder statesman adding another candle to his annual cake? Easy – it’s the singing.

I don’t know why the office workers in today’s economy punish themselves so. Somehow, it has become customary for the rest of the employee populous, upon gathering in the break room for that free sliver of frosting goodness, to belt out a harrowing version of Happy Birthday. No matter whose birthday it is, they get serenaded by an underachieving, overly flat rendition. And no one really wants to sing it in the first place, in my opinion. But at the same time, the first time that a boycott takes place, the guest of honor at this water cooler shindig will take it personally, and no matter the ingredients, the cake will taste like awkwardness.

So here we are – stuck in a vicious cycle where employees will be singing Happy Birthday roughly until the end of time. Granted it hasn’t happened yet today. But I signed the card that’s passed around the office in the unlabeled, non-descript looking folder, and I saw our patron saint of cake walk by with some cylindrical and sugar-coated. It’s only a matter of time.

Am I being unreasonable in my aversion to office birthday celebrations? No, and I’ve got just cause. You see, every time it’s time to belt out another rendition of Happy Birthday, someone says, “Ok, who wants to start?” (Granted, no one wants to start. This is Corporate Real Estate, not American Idol.) When nobody volunteers, one of the others will remember from some point in my past that I can carry a tune (that One Accord CD in my work stack of discs is a dead freakin’ giveaway.), and all of a sudden, the focus of the cake-awaiting public is squarely on me. And so every time, the phrase “Happy Bir-“ is a Chris Condon solo.

I’ve started to list it as a “job responsibility” on my annual reviews.

This is pretty much a dead end, with little hope of escape. I’ve kept myself entertained by starting the tune of in different accents every now and then, but that just triggers strange looks from others. Looks like I’ve got no choice but to start recruiting members of the 3 Tenors for our vacant facility manager positions.

Hey Domingo, the power’s out. Go fix it. I’ll hold you cake. CHOMP.