the below the belt incident

One of my colleagues and I are very different, but we get along pretty well.

 

He is from mainland China. I am from Taiwan.

He is passive. I am active.

He doesn't go out. I go out.

 

Despite these differences, we have one important similarity: we are both brutally honest with each other. He tells me when I don't look good or if my manicure is a nice color. I correct his grammar and suggest new idioms to incorporate into his lexicon. And the other day, I decided to tell him something else too.

 

See, like a lot of skinny Asian boys, Ben likes to dress emo and he loves his jeans tight and low. One day he was stretching and leaning back in his chair, and I almost went blind because some wiry black hairs were leaning out above his waistband, loud and proud.

 

The guy sitting next to Ben and I exchanged glances.

 

The image was burned into my mind. I tried to shake it off by losing myself in a boring Excel spreadsheet but all I could see were wiry black hairs before my eyes.

 

Amazingly and brazenly enough, it happened again. I couldn't take it anymore so I decided to confront him about it. And it was also for his own good. I doubt he'll make Associate if he keeps up these shenanigans.

 

But how to approach such a delicate topic? I decided to treat him to breakfast. One morning we arranged to meet outside our office. "So, where do you want to go?" I asked. "Your favorite local bakery?" Nice and cheap...

 

He scratched his head. "Starbucks," he said. "You're treating, right?"

 

"Heh...right." You just had to pick the most expensive place to have breakfast, didn't you. But if it would be expensive to fix his below-the-belt problems, then so be it. I fingered my increasingly lean wallet and forced a chuckle.

 

So we went to Starbucks, ordered, and sat down to enjoy our repast. Ben sipped his coffee and grimaced. "Eh...no good," he sniffed.

 

I scowled inwardly at his ingratitude. Ben bit into his breakfast sandwich and grimaced. "Eh...not so good," he frowned.

 

Oh my god, fuck you.

 

"So, what did you want to talk about?" he said between bites of his sandwich.

 

"Well..I just. Yeah. Just wanted to know...how you are doing..." I trailed off, suddenly unsure and nervous.

 

"What mean?" he queried.

 

"Uh..."

 

It was one of those rare moments, but for some reason yours truly was at a loss for words. So I took out my pocket notebook and decided to write it down.

 

I wanted to tell you, that I do not wish to offend you, but I wanted to let you know something.

 

"Oh, okay," Ben said. "What?"

 

I have noticed you wear jeans very low sometimes.F

 

"Yea so what?"

 

Maybe too low. In fact, you sometimes show too much. I am afraid Boss or others will notice. I wanted to tell you before they notice.

 

"Too much? Maybe it is because, I am so fashionable."

 

NO, I mean, it is not professional to risk showing, or to show, your hair below your waistband. Sometimes it happens.

 

Finally a hint of understanding dawned on Ben. "Oh, see what you mean. But I don't care."

 

What the fuck? I thought. You SHOULD care!

 

He scratched his head. "OK, thank you for your advice. We better go to work now."

 

So we left Starbucks and wallked to our office tower to queue for the lift. Then he turned to me and said, "But you know, our boss sometime show her breasts at work."

 

"Ben...there's a big difference between cleavage and pubic hair." Sometimes I feel like I am talking to a child when I try to explain decorum to people from mainland China. "Also, you are making other people feel uncomfortable."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because of something called indecent exposure, Ben!"

 

"Maybe I want expose myself!" He giggled.

 

"Ben...that's called sexual harassment."

 

"Huh?"

 

Ditto.