Yet another workweek had officially started. If Grant hadn't informed me last night about Marcie's date, the email—arriving not even a second after I left the house—would have.
A whole thread with my employees (except Marcie) had been started by Ms. Fallon, who announced she was planning a surprise going-away gift with a card, asking everyone to pitch in if they could or sign the card she would bring in on Monday. I'd forgotten how chatty my employees were. My inbox flooded with questions: the specifics of the gift, whether anyone knew what Marcie liked, and if we were planning a going-away party that Sunday.
That's when Ms. Fallon responded with a no—because Ms. Marcie was on a date. I wanted to delete the entire thread when everyone else started asking who the guy was and what he looked like. I wouldn't have minded if Marcie had told her coworkers about the gift I'd given her—on the same day as her date.
My annoyance carried into my driving and rolled over into today. Even after I confronted her and that twig she met up with, she disappeared as though my presence hadn't mattered. When I finally got back home—after hours of traffic and cursing myself for not calling the chauffeur before heading out—Grant was already getting ready to leave but noticed I was upset.
I was honest. I told him I was bothered that she wore the necklace I gave her on her blind date—on the same day we'd met up.
His response: it wasn't out of the ordinary for someone to wear jewelry, and I shouldn't think about it too much. It simply meant she liked it enough to wear.
The women Grant met wore sets of jewelry all the time. Marcie didn't. That's why I'd gifted her one. I didn't like that she used it to flaunt on her date.
And now I had to be at work early to sign this surprise card for Marcie—even though they all decided to give it to her later in the week.
This was why I was the boss. Their plans weren't coordinated at all.