Autopilot, Interrupted

I have learned over time that familiarity is useful right up until it is not. It makes life efficient and automatic. It also creates situations where your mouth moves faster than your brain and leaves you with the consequences.

This was one of those situations.

I have embarrassed myself in front of bosses before, so the category itself was not new. This particular incident is not why I left that job, in case anyone is wondering.

My boss’s name was David, and he had been my boss for years, long enough that our work rhythm required very little explanation. My husband’s name was also David, though we had only been married a few months, which meant my brain was still adjusting to this new piece of personal data. One David was long-established; the other was newly installed.

Most of our work communication happened by email or phone. He worked remotely from Minnesota while I lived in Oregon, so we spoke often, especially during busy seasons, but rarely in person. The distance created a kind of efficient familiarity. Lots of quick check-ins, short calls, constant back-and-forth that kept projects moving without much ceremony.

It was year-end, which in accounting means the normal pace of work is replaced by something closer to controlled chaos. Days blur together, everything feels urgent, and you develop the ability to answer one question while thinking about three others that have not been asked yet.

That afternoon was typical for the season. I had been emailing back and forth with Boss-David about reports, deadlines, and tasks that all needed to happen immediately. At some point my cell phone rang. It was Husband-David, calling about something ordinary, probably dinner or logistics having to do with the purchase of our new home. It was a quick conversation, the kind you end without much thought.

I hung up, set the phone down, and went straight back to work.

For years I had ended business calls the same way: a brisk “OK, bye,” followed by an immediate disconnect. No lingering, no small talk, no waiting for a reciprocal goodbye. Click, done, move on. Getting married did not change that habit.

What did change was the phrase ‘love you’ that had started sneaking into those calls. “OK, love you, bye!” New, but rapidly becoming automatic, delivered and followed by the same decisive hang-up.

After talking with my husband, I dove back into email, numbers, and deadlines with my brain still running at full speed.

Later, Boss-David called.

We discussed whatever issue was at hand, reached the usual practical conclusion, and wrapped up efficiently. Without pausing, without checking in with my brain, I ended the call the way I had ended the previous one.

“OK, love you, bye!”

Click.

I worked in a cube farm, a large room full of low walls and shared airspace, which meant everyone heard everyone else’s phone calls whether they wanted to or not. It was not unusual for people nearby to hear me say “love you, bye” to my husband.

It was unusual for them to hear it at the end of a call with my boss.

The shift in attention was immediate. A couple of heads popped up over the cubicle walls like prairie dogs, grinned at me, then disappeared just as quickly.

I gasped and clapped a hand over my mouth, which did nothing except confirm that I understood exactly what had just happened. My eyes widened, my body froze, and several prairie-dog-coworkers giggled.

I had already hung up, which meant Boss-David was alone on the other end with that sentence and no explanation. Realizing this did not improve the situation.

I opened our chat window immediately.

“I am so sorry,” I typed. “My husband’s name is David too.”

No additional context, no attempt at humor, just a factual statement offered in the hope that it would prevent further interpretation.

After sending it, I stared at the screen, wondering whether that explanation clarified anything or simply introduced a new set of questions. It felt important that he understand I had not developed inappropriate workplace attachments, only momentarily lost track of which David had been on the line.

He replied a moment later.

His response was gracious, professional, and faintly amused, the written equivalent of choosing not to make a thing out of something that could very easily become a thing.

Work resumed. Conversations continued. No one mentioned it.

I did not forget it.

The memory filed itself away for future reference, ready to resurface whenever someone ended a call with unexpected warmth. It has the same energy as a child accidentally calling a teacher “Mom.” No intention, no deeper meaning, just habit colliding with the wrong audience.

I stayed in that job for another year or so, and the two-David situation never caused trouble again. I did, however, begin pausing before hanging up, as if giving my brain a chance to veto anything inappropriate.

Every now and then, when I hear someone close a work call a little too affectionately, I recognize the danger immediately.

Wrong David.

A little grace, a little grit, plenty of laughter,

~Stef