We're on the brink of Memorial Day Weekend, and hopefully you're already planning to leave your inbox behind. When you return to it on Tuesday, please bear the following screed in mind.
The email appears, innocuous enough. Usually, you recognize the sender the way you do a distant cousin, through squinted eyes. "Oh, him?" It's a friend of a friend or an ex-colleague; it's that… Wait, who is that?... Was she a freshman when you were a senior? Does she work in PR? She works in PR.
Anyway, the email. It seems harmless at first, but give it a second glance, and it reveals itself. This isn't an invitation to drinks or to an event you'll RSVP to and then cancel at the last minute. It's a more terrible and deadlier beast—it's the intro-loop-in email. It's lethal.
Your breath turns shallow or your pulse quickens or maybe you just sit there and stare, instantly aware of your own mortal existence. We will all die eventually, perhaps some of us as a result of these millions of small personal violations. "I am mere flesh and blood," you exclaim in your cubicle or, standing, on the subway or in your "open-plan" office. "Free me from this corporal prison!"
But you can't scream and you can't be saved, because you've been "intro'd" and the preview line alone spells your doom.
"Hi!" it reads. "You two need to know each other (if you don't already!)."
And just like that, your heart sinks.
Of course, we've all committed workplace malpractice before—stealing our co-worker's phone charger and forgetting to return it, cc'-ing our colleagues because we know we can pass off some obnoxious time suck to them, stepping into an elevator and thus ruining some person's otherwise perfect full-length elevator mirror selfie. But even of all these many sins, the intro email is the premiere offense. And a word to perpetrators: we never, ever forget.
For the record, you never "already" know each other. If you did, you wouldn't need this "helpful" asshole to swoop in and make the match. In fact, you've never met and never intended to, because you have enough friends and the earth has literally billions of people on it, thank you very much. But you read on, and see that this yenta has suggested you two get coffee or drinks or go to a spin class at 6:00 a.m. You're aghast or maybe you're already numbly resigned. This isn't your first rodeo. Or maybe you shake your fist at the world, the universe, the cosmos. Its betrayal of you, its loyal foot soldier, who always reads her horoscopes on time, is deep.
And what's worse: maybe you wouldn't have minded if the sender had emailed you first and said, "Hi! I have this friend or ex or intern or cousin that I'd like you to meet." or "Hi! I have this mentee or pal or neighborhood law-school grad who doesn't know what to do with his degree" who would love to chat. But this isn't how it happens; it never is.
So, then, it starts. The routine—and you know how it goes. You like to believe you're a nice person; it's your job to pay it forward, though you would have liked to been asked to pay it forward first, but okay. Surely, this person, who requests this audience, will "reach out" and ask when would be a good time for you, the favor-doer, the meet-er for coffee or for happy hour, which you can never make, but fine. Except, the person doesn't write. It's radio silence for two weeks, and you think, "Wow! Maybe I'm free."
And just when you think you're in the clear, she emails; she's traveling for two weeks, so can you make time in three Thursdays to have breakfast at 7:00 a.m.? Actually, she has to cancel, sad face!!!! She's slammed this week; maybe touch base next? Oh! How about a workout class and then a tete-a-tete over juice? Eek, she's so sorry! Please tell her you're not already on your way to the studio at 7:15 a.m.!!! She can't make it :/ :/ :/ And somehow you've exchanged 30 emails at this point, so what are you going to do—give up? Hell, no!
Why not chat over the phone, you propose, thinking this may be the least painful way to do your duty and move on with your life! But, no, she cries, she's put you through all this trouble, the least she can do is buy you an iced capp at Via Quadronno!
Eventually, two or four or 10 weeks after the loop-in came in like a wrecking ball bearing a naked Miley Cyrus atop it, you'll meet him or her, the supplicant, and you'll pick up on a low sound wave that tips you off; this person is insane. The minutes drag on. You know it's rude to check your phone, but you must plot your escape. You can feel the strands on your head turn to ash; the wrinkles burrow in deeper. You exchange niceties. You escape. You venture back to your desk; you inhale, sharply, like, never doing that again! But you know you will. It's inevitable.
And then, a week or two later, when your "friend" asks how the coffee or the drink or the tea or the juice went, and you'll hedge and sputter: "He was nice, uh—intense." At which point, this person, the bane of your (now-foreshortened) existence, will just laugh: "Ha! Well, that's an understatement! God, I probably should have warned you!"
