I received the strangest work email this afternoon. The email invited me to a playdate.
That’s right: PLAYDATE.
The worst of it is that it was sent to me and about 400 of
my closest associates inviting all of us to playdates. Not professional development; not meetings;
not classes.
Playdates.
Technology playdates.
Look, I know I’m immature; seriously and decidedly and
dangerously and playfully immature. But
if I’m going on a playdate, it’s the kind I do with my pals after work. The closest I want to come to a playdate is
watching my mini-me attempt to staple shut the hole in some guy’s pants, or following
hours at the Civil War fort with a wrap-up party at the pub with my trivia buds,
or going to a Steely Dan concert in an open-air venue with a sports friend, or
lounging on the beach with my best townie pal.
I don’t want to attend anything known as a professional
playdate.
And who in their right mind even remotely thinks that it
is okay to tell people that your professional presentation is a “playdate”? Oh … my … god. Someone who thinks we are ignorant toddlers,
that’s who.
I’m offended.
Deeply and completely offended.
Kids, if you’re going to ask me to a playdate, I have a
few requirements that this “technology playdate” simply does not meet:
1.
It must
not be mandatory
2.
It cannot be directly related to work
3.
It must involve fun
4.
Alcohol should be served
Let me know when that damn playdate is planned. Give me a time and a place, and I’ll be
there. But please, dude, call this
monstrosity what it is. I’m not being
invited to a stinkin’ playdate; I’m being summonsed to a slow and torturous
death by boredom while my brain leaks out of both of my ears and my eyeballs
glaze over with disinterest.
I’m being invited to a technology playdate. If I’m forced to go, I promise the true
playdate will be immediately after and within arm’s reach of the taps.
