Today a staff member wandered into our office desirous of IT mojo; she’d managed to forget the password to her central computing account and, as one might imagine, was hamstrung without the access it provides.

She broke the ice with preemptory self-deprecating humor, and I responded in kind. After the exchange of several witty and rather erudite comments, we had fallen into an amusing banter as she navigated the password change process. When she submitted some personal information to the system to verify her identity, an error message appeared on the screen, and she could proceed no further. She looked up at me inquisitively, and I glanced at the screen, then told her, "you know, you look remarkably well-preserved for a woman of your age".

All previous cameraderie was flung aside as she shot me a black look that unequivocally said "FUCK YOU". There was no mistaking it. She might as well have given me the finger. Before I could explain myself and save some shred of my nascent University career, I found myself instead ready to cringe, as her mouth pursed in what could only have been its preparation to emit some scathing excoriation and a demand for my summary execution. Then her eyes fell upon the information she’d just tried to submit, and she noticed her error, the source of my jape: her birthdate. June 17th, 1692.

And lo, all was laughter and rainbows once more. But I’ll be damned if I wasn’t, if only for a moment, sure I was about to die under that withering mien. I swear, the woman could make basilisks scamper for cover.