CWW’s list of the 12 most overused phrases in work emails:

1. Circle back. Because, you know, getting back to someone requires “circling.” But not circling forwards, rather backwards because your email companion is trudging ahead in life. This person will, however, deign to put on the breaks, hit reverse and find you at some future point to let you know the information you so desperately need.  
2. As you know. IF I ALREADY KNOW WHY IS IT IN AN EMAIL? It’s like the non-ironic use of “obviously” except in Times New Roman and passive aggressively reminding you of something you probably actually never knew. Damn it! 
3. Loop in. Loops aren’t for earrings in DC— come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen any woman in the halls of a government building wearing anything but studs**. However these women and men aren’t prevented from looping in— i.e. adding in other email recipients— to their email chains. New plan: try “studding in.” Ambiguously awesome? Yes.
4. Get into the weeds. Always written by someone who neither eats food from gardens nor passes any time in dirt. Typically when this phrase is used, it’s to inform you that soon you’ll be getting into the nitty gritty details on something. The never-seen-a-garden author, however, will not be spending any time with you in that dirt.  
5. Our friends in the [insert Senate, House, White House]. They aren’t actually your friends but if you refer to them as friends in an email, it’s like you don’t writhe with contempt when you have to deal with them. Truth.
6. Reinvent the wheel. During my time in government, this phrase was used approximately four times a day by different people. I sometimes suspected that the person writing it really believed the work we were doing was akin to creating the wheel— that our impact was going to be the same as introducing cars to society. As opposed to introducing more paper to society.
7. Fully baked. As in a plan, not brownies, sadly. Though the second this horrifying phrase is dropped into a work email, my mind immediately goes to a batch of brownies that I’ll someday learn how to bake. Never do my thoughts turn to how to make a plan more cohesive and shovel-ready! (Another favorite term!)
8. Deep dive into the issue. We can’t just dive into an issue— it has to be a deep one. One that will get us into the weeds. And though the person writing this probably doesn’t swim nor go diving, this person expects you to be ready and willing to go deep into the issue and then brief him or her on it. Kthx.
9. Expend political capital. In Washington there is nothing more sacred than your political capital. So if you’re going to use it, it better be used via a large word like “expend.” And when expending political capital, it better be for something monumental. Like tickets to a Nationals game. 
10. The real turd in the punch bowl. There are many ways to discuss a spoiler. Some people like to go graphic. And ruin your lunch. At once. 
11. One size fits all solution. Little known fact— one blanket answer to a problem doesn’t exist. Who the eff knew!? The person sending that email knew. What can I say— I was an algebra all-star. 
12. Best, xxx. I don’t believe there is a less disingenuous way to sign off on an email than “best.” It’s the writer’s way of saying “I feel no emotional connection to you but believe if I sign this email with ‘best’ I will have minimized how cold and detached the rest of this email was.” Signing best is like getting a tepid hug from your dentist. It doesn’t lessen the fact you now have a giant hole in your mouth or that you’re about to pay $500 for it. But it makes your dentist feel like you’re still friends. Fact.

Sadly, I fear these 12 phrases will continue to populate my work and personal emails. Plans will continue to be made by looping in colleagues or friends; break-up emails will continue to include “best, xxx.”

I do ask that you’ll circle back if I’ve missed anything.

*While this list has a DC-slant, I believe such annoying phrases probably infiltrate the work emails of citizens throughout god-fearing America. 

**For the record I”m jealous of anyone who can wear earrings— loops, studs, whatever. I have a skin issue where I can’t get my ears pierced. I’m like the Mother Teresa of jewelry. It’s tough. 

Just think of the peaceful mind that comes with yoga! I remind myself. And the toned body! And the excuse to lounge around in ass-flattering LuluLemonAynRand pants. And then nonchalantly mention that I was just in yoga class. 

So this weekend I set out for a yoga class. And 30 seconds after opening the door to the studio, I was reminded of why my yoga spurts only last a few days. 

I was greeted by signs like “remove your shoes so we can maintain our pristine studio” and “wipe down your mat so we don’t spread diseases =0)”. The written warnings were everywhere, and they made me a little panicky. I don’t like removing my shoes and seeing people’s unpolished feet! I don’t like public health scare tactics (lest we forget the time I nearly fainted after seeing a photo of a darkened lung)! 

I decided to not be deterred in my quest for zen. So I entered the studio, laid out my mat and got my Gitmo-friendly accessories (heavy blocks, straps and towels to wipe up any blood or sweat). 

Our instructor arrived and introduced herself: “My name is Brittni**,” she said between clinched teeth. “Please indulge my obsessive compulsiveness and line your mats up with your neighbors’ so that the room will be neat and orderly.” How can I be zen when our teacher is saddling us with her neuroses? What the hell is this!? Great. The class obliged and started shuffling around. I moved myself a little, secretly hoping that my mat would remain uneven. To keep Brittni honest, you know?

Meanwhile Brittni turned on weird chanting music and started commanding we do warrior two or uttanasana. “Listen to your body— but don’t be afraid to push your limits,” she told us. “I’ll correct your posture if it’s wrong.” What was this? Such mixed instructions! Does this mean I should stop trying to touch my toes because of my genetic limitations? Or do I defy my DNA and keep trying?  All while worrying that Brittni would come over and reprimand me for having a poorly aligned mat or, even worse, feel me up as a way to correct my posture***.  

The panicky feelings never really went away as Brittni coached us through varying positions.  Worry not—at no point did I become more flexible or coordinated. Instead, just increasingly aware of how much I didn’t fit into the class (apparently I’d missed the sign that said only people capable of headstands and complicated inversions were allowed in). 

Because there wasn’t a clock in the studio, I took to trying to see my neighbor’s watch so I could know how far away freedom was. Any time her left arm twisted in my direction, I would creepily peer over at her to see the time. “Only 15 more minutes,” I comforted myself. “15 minutes! I’ve watched Billy Crystal movies for that long. I can survive this!”

And then, finally, it was time for savasana. I happily sprawled out on my mat, relieved that Brittni had cut the painful chanting music and my remarkably flexible classmates had stopped flaunting their advanced yoga poses. I closed my eyes and tried to make peace with the fact I don’t like yoga.

Much like watching a Ken Burns documentary or dating an accountant, yoga is one of these things I think I should do and think I should enjoy. That the culture and solid disposition and stretching are well-worth my boredom and discomfort. But at the end of the day, I just end up frustrated and have the nagging feeling that I’ve wasted perfectly good time (and often money****) on something I don’t like.

I opened my eyes, said my namaste to Brittni and bolted out the door. I will however admit that I spent the rest of the weekend gratuitously mentioning how I’d gone to yoga class. Sometimes I’d throw in a mention of feeling relaxed and zen. (Given my timing with St. Patrick’s Day, you can imagine how much my hungover friends loved hearing about my upward dogs.)

I’ve gotten my yoga fix for the year. But even so, I’d bet the entire Baseball documentary that within the next 15 months, I’ll probably be enrolling in another yoga class I’ll inevitable hate. 

*It took a lot of self-restraint for me to not name this “Why I’m Not Downward Dog with Yoga.”

**Name (vaguely) changed

***Luckily at the start of class, when Brittni had asked if anyone didn’t want their form corrected by her, I’d been the only one to shoot my hand up high in the area. I don’t do well with gratuitous touching from strangers. Especially self-described OCD strangers who are clearly more flexible than me.

****$25 a yoga  class at a lot of DC studios. Hippie highway robbery! (Though accountants are pretty good at paying for things. And commenting on the cost.)