Let's admit up front that bearing a relatively unusual name has its disadvantages. I'm often called Beth and Barb and even Bob, and I'll bet the average Bob never has to spell his name for people, which I have to do all the time--and still I get a cup of coffee labelled "Maeve."
But the advantage is that I generally don't have to share my name with half a dozen friends and colleagues. Stand up at a
faculty meeting and call for Dave and enough guys will respond to man a basketball team, but call for Bev and you'll get me. I am the only Bev among the
faculty--but I'm not the only Bev on campus, and in the age of
Autocomplete, that's a problem.
The other Bev is a highly competent administrative assistant who does work for a bunch of really important people, all of them very intelligent but also very busy--so busy, in fact, that when they compose e-mail, they sometimes type "Bev" into the "to" slot and instantly accept whatever Autocomplete offers, even if it's the wrong Bev.
Which is why I get mail asking me to reserve rooms for events, schedule meetings, unlock doors, order textbooks, and respond to questions way outside my area of expertise. At least once a week I have to reply to an e-mail pointing out that it's been sent to the wrong Bev and then accept apologies from the sender.
Which is no big deal, really. It's not as if it happens every day, and getting these e-mails makes me thankful that I'm not responsible for the variety of things the other Bev takes charge of. (Did I mention that she's highly competent? I stand in awe of her competence.) But I sort of feel sorry for the guy out there waiting for someone to come and unlock his door while I'm away from my computer and can't even let him know that he's written to the wrong Bev, and when I have to gently remind a high-level administrator that I'm the wrong Bev to be privy to certain sensitive information, I feel a little guilty.
But why should I feel guilty? I can't help being the Wrong Bev! I was born this way!
What would happen if I just hoarded all those e-mails and never informed the senders that they'd reached the wrong Bev? Given the other Bev's position in the heart of the administrative vortex, the whole campus would fall slowly to pieces. Doors would remain locked. Meetings would fizzle, unscheduled. Textbooks would languish unordered in warehouses. Questions would linger unanswered.
Well, I can't sit idly by and ignore the impending Bevapocalypse. And so I reply: "You've got the wrong Bev. Sorry!" And then thank my lucky stars that I'm not the right Bev.
But wait a minute--if I start unlocking doors and reserving rooms, do you think the other Bev will do my grading?
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