Somewhere out there, somebody probably thinks I’m a bitch.
And the uncomfortable part is they might have a pretty good reason.
I don’t think I’m a terrible person. I actually think I’m quite pleasant. Funny, even. But I’ve been alive long enough to know I’ve probably been the villain in a few stories I don’t even know are being told.
Actually, I know of at least one.
Years ago, a coworker was offended because I called her pumpkin.
Pumpkin.
I called everybody pumpkin. It was no different from honey or sweetheart. Apparently, she did not find it sweet.
The next thing I knew, we were talking to HR about it.
Human Resources. Over pumpkin.
I was genuinely surprised. And honestly, I thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Of all the things someone could say to offend you at work, pumpkin?
But she was offended, and my explanation that I called everybody that didn’t change how she felt.
I can only imagine how she tells that story. Maybe I was condescending. Maybe she thought I was being deliberately disrespectful. I’ll never know.
In her version, I’m the coworker who made her uncomfortable enough to go to HR. In mine, I’m the woman who couldn’t believe she was sitting in an HR meeting over a term of endearment.
Same interaction. Two very different stories.
And I still think it was ridiculous.
It's amazing how much grace we give ourselves just because we know what we meant.
When I don’t return a call, I’m busy. When someone doesn’t return mine, I wonder what their problem is.
When I’m short with somebody, I’ve had a long day. When they’re short with me, they’re rude.
Then there’s how I tell the story about someone who upset me. I remember every word they said and every look on their face. Funny how I may forget to mention what I said first.
I wonder how many times I’ve told a story where I was obviously the reasonable one, but the other person would barely recognize my version.
That doesn’t mean every complaint about us is fair. People misunderstand things. Sometimes two people just don’t like each other.
But we don’t get to decide how someone remembers us. Someone might still be telling a story about something I said ten years ago, something I forgot ten minutes after saying it.
They might not even be wrong about what happened. They might just be leaving out the same context I’d insist was essential.
I don’t need everyone to like me. I don’t even need everyone to think I’m nice.
But every now and then, it’s worth wondering what the story sounds like when somebody else gets to tell it.
Especially when you’re absolutely certain you did nothing wrong.