The Third Wheel

4:45 Am, Monday - just another mournful, melancholy day when Friday seems eternally far away and unreachable. The tea made and blanket on my lap, I should be all geared up to grind away the bottomless list of work. Somehow my mind wandered elsewhere. For the past few days I had been preoccupied with the same questions that wouldn’t go away: “Is J going to show up? And if he does, when does this doom come?” J is another coworker who bluntly asked the “unthinkable” request on Thursday when he found out my sacred morning routine, “Do you mind if I walk with you?’. What was more unthinkable was that I conceded with a yes.

Why I ever committed the unpardonable sin is another mystery to be explored. Was it my “Sure why not” eager-to-please old nature’s treachery act or was it my optimistic hope that this time it could be different? Above all, what makes J an exception? He is from another group, one of those old-timers that have remained unchanged while the company does exactly the opposite, perpetually morphing in her names, administration, even operations over the decades. Our paths never did cross till we were assigned to the same training class for one whole week. Even then, we hardly talked. He was quiet, non-intruding, almost ghost like. I remember having bumped into him a few times prior to the training whenever he popped out of his cocoon and not ever exchanged a word or nod. I took no offense – in terms of work relationship (and life in general), I am a firm believer of “less is more”. However, the training week changed it when I brought in cookies on the last day. J loved them. I have been soliciting my homemade goodies whenever my impulsive nature comes to play. Many here have been the beneficiary recipients, but little ever returned with more than a “thanks”. Since there is no obligation involved – just me and my vanity, I keep it up voluntarily without expecting anything. Thus when J dropped a small box of chocolates for Christmas, I found myself surprised and delighted as if it had been the precious thanksgiving from the one leper out of the ten.

Since then, he remains on my random cookie distribution list. We still don’t talk much – a little of IM, an occasional drop-in, light yet appreciative exchanges serve us well. Maybe that did the trick to unlock my iron cast door to my forbidden walk? Granted he was warned to keep the pace and most importantly the sacred peace, I still have plenty of my after-fact remorse for my concession.

So 6:30 came – and so did he. I greeted the new comer with a curt nod and put on my IPOD – the ritual must carry on, unchanged and untouched, with or without company. I charged forward without so much a look at the shadow one step behind. We walked the entire route in promised silence except for the ceremonial “you OK?” during and “how was it” after. Not exactly awkward, but crowded enough. My Bach could have told me so, but I was knee deep in the predicament with no one’s fault but mine. J did not fail to keep the 2-P (peace and pace) golden rules, so why was the walk still not quite the same spare the talk? Was it the presence of the third wheel, as gentle and quiet as it is, that made it so intruding and disquieting? Maybe the better question should be: Am I a lost cause for good when it comes to company?

I thought of another occasion when talk was actually required – the Saturday’s dinner party at friends’. Unlike my walk, where silence is gold, parties by definition actually call for conversation and social etiquettes. And participate did I do, more than the share I desired. For over three hours, I became one of the merry party, enjoying plenty of good food, talks and laugher. As we drove home, before the clock even stuck 12 and carriage changed back to pumpkin, the Cinderella was already back to her rags and shame, wishing the ballroom memory lost like her glass slipper.

Talk or no talk, both occasions have but one common element – me. All the while I have the safe guard of staying away from trouble. It didn’t dawn on me till now that the troubling third wheel is none other than me. However painful this revelation is, the biggest and most impossible question remains: How do I get rid of this third wheel?

Lost and Found

It was Tuesday night when I was lying in bed and out in the blue something hit me: Where is my ring! Not exactly a question, but an alarming exclamation mark that kicked me right out of that after-dinner lazy moment, and the bed too. I scrambled around turning the room upside down, digging and groping for that diamond ring my mother had given me a few months ago before I headed back to U.S. Never a jewelry person myself except for some fun, cheap things to satisfy my spur-of-the-moment girly fancy, but then and there I was almost panicking with fear. The ring was more than a piece of expensive jewelry. It was something my mother had purposely saved and tailored made for me. She eyes were glowing from the joy of surprising me when she opened that blue velvet box where the white gold diamond ring twinkled back in a matching glow. I remember making a big show of “oooh” and “wow” while I put it on my tawny, wrinkled finger. It looked totally wrong, and yet it was perfect because it made my mother happy.

That night ended with me going to bed with a heavy load of sadness and regret. I remembered finally that I had put it in my pocket during my morning walk a few days ago and then totally forgotten about it afterwards. Clearly my forgetfulness and carelessness proved me again unworthy of any good things, but most importantly my mother’s trust and faith. I have been the notorious klutz in a family of my opposite – organized, driven and competent. And a diamond ring put me back in that corner where everyone’s reprimanding look became my worst punishment. I went back to work with the smallest thread of hope that it might be either at my desk or turned in to the lost and found. No luck with both. By then I was finally forced to face the ultimate verdict: the ring was gone.

Why do we never love back till we lose it? I had worn the rings less than a dozen of times for the duration of 5 months. Even when it did show up on my finger, it was hardly accompanied with much pride – in fact, I’d pay much more attention with my coworkers’ accessories. How pretty their rings, bracelets and necklaces look! How I wish I had something like that! While I envied their acquisition, my ring sat forgotten in my cheap plastic “jewelry box”, accompanied by their same fated friends that I showed little regard of. Now that it is gone, my affection has miraculously resurfaced. How beautiful my ring was! How I wish it were still here! Like any unfaithful lover that faces the loss of his love, I was buried in such intense remorse that I would have reversed time and moved the heaven and earth to recover it at all cost.

I didn’t have to work that much. 3 days’ regret was all it took to bring back time and space when I found my ring under the bed, where I had searched, or I thought I had. Imagine the ecstasy and surprise I had as I held it in my palm, my eyes wide open and my heart pumping as if it were going to stop. Fate has taken a pity on my grief and pardoned me from my sin of negligence! What accompanied the joy was a renewed vow of devotion and protection. The prodigal son has come home to stay for good.

I thought of another lost and found and wondered if it has recovered my allegiance from the 2nd round around like my ring. It too disappeared, only much slowly and less noticeably over a good period of time. The void from its absence, though not as dramatic, brought far more casualty than my ring ever did. I was living, but not alive, seeing without eyes and walking yet going nowhere. Its reappearance was just as soundless as its evanescence with a dose of calming assurance instead of delirious thrill. There was no magic moment or drama as I felt when I found the ring under the bed. I remember that day during my morning coffee time with D, just like that, I said thoughtfully to him: “I think I am saved”, as in He was as real as day 1 when we first met in that room, the constant in my ever wandering heart for the past 30 years and the only hope for a fleeting life like this.

Never find myself lucky, but this time I have to declare exactly the opposite. A double dose of lost and found, two second chances – you couldn’t get luckier than this.

"I just want you to be happy"

8:30pm – bed time prep for the early bird like me. I was brushing teeth when the father of the children walked in and smiled with an arched brow: “S has got a B+ with his Physics test.” I blurted out: “Wonderful! Did you praise him up and down?” Some men are not accustomed to big shows of emotions and mine is one of them. He handed me the phone: “Why don’t you?” I dialed and followed up with the “good for you… I am so proud” dutiful yet truthful praise. I could almost see his mouth curved up with a slight smile as he accepted my congratulations. After over 21 years, I learned to take his not-at-all exciting excitement as true excitement. He was happy despite of his scant exhibition of emotions.

A B+ from a relatively ordinary state college is nothing extraordinary comparing to our friends’ children’s A’s from those prestigious schools. To us, it is. May marks the end of his junior year, a miracle of itself that exceeds all our wildest dreams. It also has been the calmest time since the day he was born. Distance has mended much wound for us all. Now that he has leased a year-round apartment, his trip home has become even more scarce. Whenever we see him, he seems relaxed and almost confident, in contrast to the tormented (and tormenting) phantom that was so miserably inapposite. As much as I want to keep the safe guard of low (or no) expectation about this once explosive tragedy, I can’t help feeling hopeful – that the future might be good, that he would be fine and that he could be happy.

I recall having a conversation – one of those mixed-agenda talks before his junior year to prompt him to strive for a good school year. I started with a picture of the past of gloom and doom and then paired it with a contrast, a future filled with prosperity and joy - if he would work for it. “You deserve to be happy. It’s time for you to be happy.” I emphasized. It sounded like one of those pep talks a parent would say to encourage his unfocused child. And yet I meant every word of it – of all the goals, dreams and hopes I ever had for him, I wanted him to be happy.

I thought of one particular sermon when our pastor admonished the secular mentality of parenthood – “whatever you do, I just want you to be happy”. Have I just defected to the other end after 21 years of Christian education and fervent prayer we have invested on our children? I found myself choking on this frightening question. Is there any ground to pardon a convict when the cause of her crime is as unintentional, even innocent as the offense itself? Surely there have been and will be plenty of suffering lives much worse than him, but he is in fact the saddest human being whose unhappiness has been incurred not by his poor choices but by being himself. Can I, as his mother, find exception in God’s judgment for a superficial hope like “happiness” for a sad child like him?

Nerely 3 years he has gone off to college, giving this family a much needed time and space to heal from a volcanic nightmare that feels like yesterday and a life time ago. Such paradox is confusing but every bit true, just like him. I have to discipline myself to stay at the farther end where memory fades out and almost seems unreal. Still, there are moments when the past would flood in and become present, and there it is all over again: his tears and agony were mixed with mine, his hell became mine and his suffering mine too. I have not yet fully forgiven myself when I remember his loneliness – not one, his family included, ever offered friendship to him. For 18 years of his life, he was subjected to nothing but his peers’ cruel tease and cold alienation. The phone never rang, birthday invites hardly came and at the youth group the ball conveniently skipped him. He was the square peg in a round hole, unwelcomed if not unseen. The two words he carved on his wall in NH home “I SUCK” might as well be engraved on my heart forever. I could still see him there, the poor boy at the far end looking at this world with every longing but no capacity to fit in, all the while thinking it was all his fault that he was this lonely and unhappy.

No, I have not forgotten man’s chief end and that without faith all happiness in life is but vapor. With an exception like him, whose disability is who he is, I have but the comfort of not only God’s limited atonement but also His unconditional love. If he is His sheep, the Master and Maker would continue to care for him to the end, despite of what this poor mother’s guilty and selfish wish, even when it is plainly “I just want you to be happy”.

Bad Math

After moving north a few months ago, ex-colleague M is back in town. I had actually heard from another colleague yesterday about her visit and a possible lunch date opening to all. Sure enough, the invite was announced during our staff meeting. Prior to the meeting, the boss unexpectedly visited my cubical, inquiring me of the lunch: “You are NOT coming?” Instantly a mixture of self-defense and guilt surfed through my body while I cautiously replied no, tagging with “is that OK”. He explained he had assumed I wouldn’t be coming thus was assigning me to be the emergency backup. Strangely, another mixture of emotion rushed through me, partly relief from his not taking offense and partly indignation from their being so openly presumptuous. Regardless, I was more pleased than annoyed.

Friday lunching-out is customarily though not obligatorily observed by some of us here after a long week of brown bag sandwiches. I faithfully remain untouchable by all invites, which have never been many, if not few. The truth is, it hasn’t taken more than 2 or 3 “NO”s to stop them from coming. I neither find it ill nor fault my “considerate” coworkers. To me, eating with a group of colleagues at a table is far more challenging than working on some troublesome tickets. There is the unknown factor of whom you might sit with, what you should talk about, but mostly how to look interested and engaged when you are totally NOT.

So gladly I took the DOA, focusing on the joy of being left alone to hold the fortress, even though it was but a couple of hours of sheer solitude. I left the meeting looking like a cat with a mouse on her mouth, grinning from ear to ear and full of herself – until I stepped back to my cubicle and realized that I would not be alone. B and R, 2 of my cube-mates, would NOT be going to the lunch either. They don’t ever, just like me.

My heart sank and my joy fled. I sat deflated, frowning and grumbling. As self-absorbing as I am, I am not without conscience. While I fumed with my unfortunate loss, I had to ask myself: if one scrooge equals to FUN, why does one scrooge plus 2 NOT?

Interestingly, R and B are of 2 totally different dispositions and in fact at odds with each other though not explicitly. B is the golden boy and Mr. Perfect, while R is the black sheep, the wild child out of control. At first meeting, I too was drawn to the perfect son. He prays long prayer before his lunch, reads his Bible religiously everyday and works/talks like a prim and proper IT professional. R, on the other hand, is loud, volcanic and borderline obnoxious. Both claimed to be professed Christians and yet they couldn’t be any farther from each other. It didn’t take me long, though, before I switched camp.

I have suspected if my defection had something to do with the fact that R sadly reminds me of myself, a child forever trapped within that is impossible to grow up. Flawed and even damaged, he is incapable to hide or pretend. However, his Christian charity does submerge on and off though not without grunting and cussing. All the good and bad are out open glaring at the world as it condemns him. In comparison, B’s even temperament, long southern drools and seemingly perfect disposition are strikingly superior and yet short-lived (to me) once I detect all Christian’s heart and acts stop at his straight A appearance.

Both, just like me, have been known as the lunch rejects for different reasons: one refuses to mingle while the other is just cheap. For someone who is the cheapest of all, it seems unjust to judge another for that. But I am not speaking of lunch alone. In almost 3 years of stay here, I have not seen him lending a giving hand in work or life. His appearance – helpful and gentle - is all without any actions to give. Charity without action is no charity at all. And even actions, without heart, are just acting like. There are plenty of scrooges here that are self-serving and cheap, but at least they don’t pretend to be something else. . Then again, we will never escape the guilty charge for being wayward and irresponsible as long as we wear the brand-mark of Jesus. As I look at his opponent, R, I have to ask the inevitable, convicting questions: for a child of God, which is worse – the one that is imperfect in deeds or the one that is perfect in name alone? When the day comes to face my Lord, will I be able to explain myself away in either charge?

My 2-hour alone-time turned out to be nothing alone as 3 of us shared the “empty” nest in absolute silence. It was just like any of the lunch hour – the same cubicle, same occupants and same silence and yet it felt more crowded and stifling than usual. I had no one to blame but myself when all went wrong that Friday: bad recess, bad mood and bad math. Let it be a precious lesson for all mankind that false expectation can be a grave peril - it could ruin your fun.

TGIF

It was just another Friday – with a twist of an exciting prospect. Reason one, I took a day off from work. Secondly, I was planning for a dinner party. For this all-or-nothing rebel, I cycle through two social extremities periodically and this time it was diving in full force – a voluntary invite, including one couple whom we have not seen for over a year.

Among many of my downfalls, pride is the chief-most. And it shows even in my hosting. I would lose sleep over if not checked. My worst fear from house cleaning to menu planning is if I have enough food (and varieties) for my company. As this time there were but 2 couples, whom we have known for more than 2 decades, it wasn’t all that troublesome. Still, I managed to work myself up to comb through 3 stores and cook for 3 hours. By the time I finished racing the clock, 6:25 exactly, dinner was in the oven, table set and dishes cleaned.

To spice up my menu, I put a spin of Chinese flare: pot roast with Chinese spice, whole grain rice, roasted vegetable and 2 authentic appetizers or side dishes: spring rolls and pot stickers, the last two being everyone’s favorites but labor intensive. My vanity was the only drive I needed as I swept through the kitchen utensils and appliances to make homemade dough, shred the vegetable and grind the meat. Finally I sat down to wrap the spring rolls and dumplings. My fingers swiftly performed their magic as I had done it a million times. It felt home and peaceful. Then the door swung open, in walked the little gypsy from his daily bike patrol trip. Those saucer eyes lit up as he spotted his favorite food, dumplings. He exclaimed “ooooooh”, a simple but clear expression of joy. Instantly, my heart swelled up with matched emotion – I was happy to make my son happy. He went off to his computer while I remained in that afterglow of warmth that only a mother could fully appreciate. Suddenly I was caught unguarded by the questions: how long would I be able to make his favorite dumplings? And who would make them for him when I am gone? I felt that heart that just pumped with comfort seconds ago now constricting in such pain and panic that I could not breathe. Surely it was hardly my first time to face my own mortality, but it was the first time when I realized I could not make dumplings for him forever.

Where was the Friday cheer? My hands mechanically continued on with their task while the tears helplessly and foolishly rushed in. Gone was TGIF, my merry party and all anticipation. The house was all set for my company with food smelling mighty festive, clutters picked up and bathroom cleaned – all except that hole in my heart.

Later that night I unintentionally brought up the silly dumpling scare during our dinner conversation. Several suggestions were brought up, one of them being “Freeze a lot of them”. As the laughters filled up the room, I wondered still if our company’s claim of similar fright as all parents do was indeed valid. Even so, could their share of anxiety ever match the capacity and extent of my fear beyond dumplings? Was it my children’s “difference” that weighed down my outlook for Christians’ ultimate joyful end (or beginning) or was it just my weak faith? It was fear that brought me to the foot of the cross, and yet decades later it is still fear that brings me to the same place where I started. I couldn’t help wondering, again, on the million dollar question: am I saved?

On that particular Friday, I had meant to celebrate with all honesty and effort. It started out well but somewhat deflated despite of the good friends and conversation. Still, it wasn’t a complete lost cause. The weather was glorious with blue sky and gentle breeze. Daffodils were waking up from the deep winter dormant, checking out their new neighbors, the pansies I had bought from the nursery earlier that day. I played house all day long and most importantly my friends never ran out of food. Doubt and fear aside, I did enjoy a change of season with good friends. It was TGIF - almost.

Shall We Walk?

It was another brutally cold day; both inexcusably and ridiculously for March in the southern Virginia. We (my 29-year-old coworker and I) were on the way to drive-through for some fried chicken. A greasy yet comforting lunch made sense after a confusing week with temperature fluctuating between 70’s and 30’s. We were letting out our frustration while we dreamed of our hot, scrumptious chicken. I was fuming especially about missing my morning walk when my young coworker cut in, eyes wide open with excitement. “I should walk too. When the weather warms up, we should walk together.” Without a second to spare, I blurted out, short and precise, “No.” “Why?” She asked with more protest than curiosity. “You can’t keep up with me.” I said. “That’s exactly what I need: someone to whip me and push me”, insisted she. Without a split second loss I replied with same obstinacy: “I don’t want to talk when I walk.” “Is it just physically too strenuous?” This time she was sincerely curious. “Yes,” said I with equal sincerity, “Talking and walking is too much work.”

I realize that my coworker’s request was not all that unreasonable. In fact I have seen enough coworkers doing so, in 2 or 3, everyday. What seems to be most natural in their body language, the smile, ease and talks, is exactly the most absurd to me. How do they do that? And how COULD they? It pains me even to see them doing it.

Later on that day when I had time to reflect on our interactions, I began to feel some regret, only on my lack of diplomacy or tactfulness rather than the answer itself. I would reply with the same answer each and every time. That night I asked my other half what he would have said. There was no reason to expect from this born loner a different sentiment about “walking with others”, but he did say he would have said something like “Maybe. Let’s see.”

I had my “Maybe, Let’s see” older days. In fact, I was a proud graduate from “Maybe, Let’s see” or even “Sure, why not”. There were plenty of days when pleasing others was almost an obsession to me that my mouth would always unwisely say yes before my brain had a chance to stop it. How desperate and needy I was, and how frustrating and foolish it must have been to try and fail time after time! Of all failing attempts, the worst trauma came about 15 years ago – it ironically too started with walking with someone else.

S was then 6, young, ignorant and over-zealous for his almost first social come-out. Prior to this, he had known almost no one except his autistic brother, thus one can appreciate his (or my) excitement when Chris came to the picture. The family had just moved in – appearing at first glance a perfect match for us with a father working too at the college and mother full-time home-maker. The two boys from the same neighborhood attended the same school and the same class. Imagine our joy! So we had our hurdle underneath: our autistic older son and socially inhibited 2nd son vs their two perfect children, and the frozen chosen Calvinists vs the liberal Presbyterian couple, but no one is perfect and we were more than willing to forgive and forget. Soon enough the two boys and mothers were thrown together at play time, phone calls and all that motherhood good stuff. For a little while, I almost felt normal – until that tragic downfall, when we started walking together.

Beth and I first bumped into each other in the 5:15 morning walk at the neighborhood. After a few times of “good morning, how are you?”, it was logical that bumping together turned into walking together. In truth, except for speed, there was nothing in common between us: she was soft-spoken, sweet in demeanor, and kept a house clean and white. While her life appeared to be perfectly in order, mine was anything but. It was, though, not our differences that caused the ruin, but the talk along the walk. Granted I was excited about being admitted to the “mom circle” finally, the 40 minutes of non-stop, friendly chit chats turned out to be just most exasperating and excruciating! Before long, I found myself stuck in a situation where I ran out of not only topics on my miserable life but also comments on her perfect one. The walk turned into this insufferable pop quiz that I had not and could not possibly have prepared for – EVERYDAY. To recover, I decided to cut down on our morning session. I started my round a half hour earlier and met her at the end to do the last 10 minutes. When questioned, I frankly admitted I needed time to wake up. My candid andswer wasn’t well received as I had expected. Pretty soon, my new friend started missing from our walk, and then the phone calls, eventually all interactions altogether.

Looking back on this unfortunate rift, I can finally deduce that it was caused by a combination of my own poor judgment, lack of self-understanding and haste to conform. As much as I sympathize with her sense of rejection, I have to defend my honor that I was then young and hopeful, not realizing my socializing deficit. After all, it wasn’t just my son’s first social attempt alone; it was mine too. This mistake, though sad, did teach me precious lessons: (1) talk and walk should never mix and (2) if necessary, I reserve the seats solely for Bach and my mate, bound by law and life, with whom I have neither need nor fear to please or displease. My young coworker may never appreciate my curt response but this overcomer, much older and wiser now, would rather be blunt in truth than blunder in foolishness. No matter what, let my walk remain forever more sacred as it should be: solo and safe. Amen.

Morning War

Another work day commenced. Same ritual: clothes, shoes, lunch box, 18-minute drive (plus or minus a few grunts pending on the sequences of the stop lights), parking and 2-block walk to the office. All was well. I continued on with the rest of setup: tea, email, phone messages. Finally, the bottom right corner of my computer displayed 4:15 and there it came, the same anxiety, almost anguish, as my ear listened for the sounds of door opening and the intruding footsteps.

I realize that I do work in a 21st century IT world, open floor plan with cells or cubicles, where the comfort (or concept) of privacy simply does not exist. It is exactly that reason that I found my morning solitude so primal to my emotional well-being. On top of it, there are parking issue and insomnia which made my “early to rise (arrive)” a no-brainer solution. When I first started changing the hour, I bumped into another early riser a few times at the coffee lounge and engaged in a few cordial coffee-tea conversation sessions. It was then around 5am. Our social rendezvous, instead of promoting an amiable kinsmanship, ironically evolved to be a waging war as he (or I?) started shifting the arriving time for earlier. Before long, my competitive instinct was baited such that the alarm clock went through a confusing sequence of adjustment, until 3:23 finally settled the dispute. For a while, peace finally arrived on B521, where I had my 30 minutes of alone-time before my rival, now co-owner of the temporary peace domain, came in at 4:30. After that, we had another 20 minutes before the 3rd runner reached the winner’s circle. My ear soon learned to distinguish the footsteps at certain time. 5:10 was S, who religiously turned off the lights at his quarter. 5:30-ish belonged to neighbor T, and then neighbor B who could be rowdy at times due to the inconvenience of next-door location. After that, we have 5:55 for E, 6:05 for M, and so forth. All was well. The hopelessly impulsive, at the same time impossibly rigid rebel was thankfully tamed with the help of a dose of solitude and the clock-wise routines of the others’ arriving.

If only life proved to be predicable ever after! It started with neighbor B, with allotted arrival time 5:35, decided to disturb the perfect sequence. With a sneaking 5 minutes here and there, he reset his clock, against my wishes, to 5:15. Meanwhile the 3rd arrival joined the treachery by inching in to the war-zone, switching her time from 4:50 to 4:30. Such rebellious defiance was not only unthinkable but also excruciating. Eventually the shock did taper off, only to be replaced with persistent pain. Morning after morning, I go through the same anguish, awaiting the disturbed sequence with unresigned indignation.

How and why have I been stuck in this predicament? I have to wonder. Is it my own competitive and controlling nature to blame? Granted if I did own my fault, I have to add that I am not without company here. The all-wise Chinese proverb does say: “One hand claps not”. There would have been no war or competition if there had been one party all along. Recall, specifically, the first instigation started with the other early riser, AKA “light man”, who shifted his time from 5 all the way to 4:30 upon my first appearances. What would you do with rejection or provokes such as those except for joining in and fighting your honor as any good soldiers should? What of the other two defectors? Don’t they know once their time is set there is no excuse to change, especially when my mental, emotional well-being is at stake? What is it that people cannot embrace stability when everything is running perfectly (and most importantly, I am happy)?

I heaved a long breath as the door finally opened at 4:25 when light man came. There it started all over again: the new and undesired sequence. Changes are BAD. I muttered to myself, but “time heals all wounds”. Hopefully, and SOON, time will do her other magic: change the offensive ‘new’s back to old and then peace may finally arrive – both at B521 and most importantly, cubicle 20.

Let there be no more deviation henceforth, I pray.