Mary is high maintenance. She talks in paragraphs rather than sentences and launches into endless analogies that make what should be a 10-minute conversation turn into an hour. You can always tell when a coworker is on the phone with her because they say nothing but "Mmmm hmmm" a lot and stare blankly into the distance.
The problem with Mary is that even with all the words she uses, she's not the best communicator. She'll send you an email asking you to do something for her and it's unclear what she wants. That's because Mary doesn't know what she wants. She just knows she wants something. And she wants you to figure it out for her, which takes lots of time and energy.
Mary changes her mind a lot and over thinks every step of the process. So let's say I've agreed to write five paragraphs about a pro bono project she's working on for the firm to post on our website. We'll discuss what the story should say, I'll read the background materials and settle in to typing. In the following 24 hours I'm sure to get at least five emails from her with links to various websites, "Maybe we should mention this," she'll write or "Can you look into that?" What should take me an hour turns into an afternoon, then another day of back-and-forth and second guessing.
The thing about Mary, however, is that she really is a nice person. Before my wedding a couple years ago, she inter-office mailed me a blue handkerchief she had embroidered with little blue flowers. Something borrowed, something blue. I was touched. It really was quite thoughtful.
In the past I've had the time and the patience to navigate her Woody Allen-like quirks without losing my composure. But that's not what happened the other day when I reached the end of my rope and snapped at her.
This is the backdrop against which Mary called the other day needing something. I reluctantly agreed, given the long list of higher-profile projects I was working on. From there, it got messy. The details about what happened are long and frankly, boring. So I'll spare you. The bottom line is that Mary wrote some emails to some of my team members thinking she was being helpful while in reality she was making the project more convoluted and complicated.
So I fired back some strongly worded emails basically telling her to stop it. I fell into the trap of saying things in email that I probably would have said with more finesse in person. I also "replied to all," causing her much embarrassment.
Last night I was working late when my office phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and knew it was her. I debated picking up, then decided to face it.
"Laurie, it's Mary," she said, her voice shaky with emotion -- a dangerous combination of hurt and fury.
I took a deep breath and braced myself as she launched into how this was all a big misunderstanding and that I was accusing her of doing something she didn't even do. She was calling from the hospital where she was dealing with a very sick family member, she said, almost sobbing.
"You sent four emails all saying the same thing," she said. "I'm in the hospital on my laptop, my battery is dying and they just kept coming."
That's because I was responding to four emails she had scatter-fired to my team members raising slightly different issues that I felt were worth addressing. But I didn't say that. Instead, I tried to put years of therapy into practice by listening, trying to understand her point and reflect it back to her.
But then she got personal.
"More than anything, I was shocked by your tone," she said. "Of all people, I never expected this from you. I never knew you were THAT type of person."
I could hear her breathing heavily into the phone. If I could see her face, I'm sure her nostrils would have been flaring.
"This is not the Laurie I knew," she continued. "I've never been anything but polite to you. And I will continue to be polite to you because I'm not THAT type of person."
That's when my internal alarm bells went off. Like a scientist in a lab coat, I could step back and watch the conversation with Buddhist-like detachment and reach an objective diagnosis: Wow... she's shaming me.
It's a powerful technique and terribly effective. We've all done it in the heat of an argument, especially when we've felt deeply wounded by the other person. You hurt me and now I'm going to hurt you even more by attacking your character. It's like when your mom gives you that withering look and says, "I'm disappointed in you" rather than "I'm disappointed by what you did."
I've fallen victim to this emotional trap many times over the years. I've walked around for days with accusations ricocheting inside my head, going over and over them and asking myself, "Am I really that difficult? Am I truly heartless? Selfish? Completely irrational?" I'll survey my closest friends, looking for reassurance. "Do you think I'm difficult? Heartless? Selfish? Completely irrational?"
This time, I didn't do that. Having the realization of what was going on didn't make what Mary said any less painful. I still cried after I got off the phone with her out of sheer exhaustion, remorse and frustration. I felt badly that I had hurt her. If I had to write the emails over again, I would have done it differently. But I didn't question the core of who I am. I didn't ask anybody for reassurance.
Some of Mary's feedback was valid and I'll take it into consideration for the future. But the shame is hers. That I'm not taking. I'm building a new life here -- both mine and our baby's. I'm just not up for a game of character assassination.
