Corporate America is a disease, I’m convinced, and a highly contagious one.

After two years of working in it, I count myself reasonably free of infection, mostly because I can still spot its symptoms from across a conference room table. The day I stop noticing is the day I fall victim.

Like John. I’m not sure how long he’s been infected but he’s clearly a terminal case. My guess is he’ll be part of the corporate world throughout his career, indeed that he wouldn’t survive outside it.

John is one of my favorite sales reps: Patient, polite, slow of speech, as genuine as the day is long, he’s the perfect personality for a career with seniors. John left a message on my voicemail while I was gone last week, an update on an event I’d coordinated for him.

“But hey, we can talk more about this when you get back. Enjoy your PTO!”

PTO? Enjoy my Planned Time Off? How about, “Have a nice vacation!” or even, “Enjoy your time off.”

I swear I felt a little stab of sadness, that my dear John was a corporate soldier, and so completely unaware of it.

The strangeness continues on a daily basis.

My new manager insisted I have a P-Card. The mysterious “P”, it turns out, stands for Purchasing. The P-Card is a company Visa used for business expenses. I received two, each with a separate account number – one by priority mail and the second by regular mail. I authorized the Priority Mail card; clearly, it was more important. The credit card company had no idea what to do with the second card.

“You’ll have to ask your manager,” the representative said. “We have nothing to do with that.”

“You’ll have to ask the expense department,” my manager said. “I have nothing to do with that.”

“Who at the expense department do I talk to?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ll have to ask someone at corporate.”

“Can’t I just cut up the second card?”

“No,” she said, spearing me with a look that told me I'd said something suspicious and strange.

“Well, what about my pass key? It doesn’t have garage access.” I held up the white rectangular piece of plastic I scanned past a red laser to gain entrance to the office each morning.

“I’m not sure about that either. E-mail Sarah.”

Sarah sat one desk from me. An actual person I knew. But my manager had asked me to e-mail her, and somehow, I thought this was an order. Speaking was not the preferred method of communication.

Her reply was prompt. “Talk to the management company, first floor.”

Neither of the two women on the first floor could help.

“That request has to come from your corporate office. Your manager will know.”

My manager did not know. It appeared I was doomed to boil in the parking lot forever, or at least until winter, when I would freeze.

This problem was forgotten, however, when yet another manager peeked over the wall of my cube.

“What you got going tomorrow?” he asked, corralling my co-worker as she walked by. “And you, too, what’s on your schedule?"

“I’m open,” I said.

“Me, too,” Debbie added.

“Great,” he said. “Let’s meet. 11 a.m.?”

We nodded in agreement.

“Alright. I’ll send an invite," he said, disappearing into his office.

In less than a minute, the e-mail popped into my inbox: an invitation from the manager to an 11 a.m. Friday meeting. Would I accept? Accept with comment? Decline? Decline with comment? Ignore?

I hesitated, debating. I could accept with comment and write, “OK, but I wish you would have talked to me about this before.” Or decline with comment, perhaps adding: “Sorry, something came up in the last eight seconds.”

In the end, I chose “accept,” knowing this was in the best interest of my bank account and my career. As we’d learned well in our online e-mail etiquette company-required training, every e-mail has the potential to destroy its sender. One of the worst symptoms of the Corporate America disease: no sense of humor.

Besides that, attending the meeting would log an hour or two onto my accumulated hours. And that would bring me another few minutes closer to that most-treasured of corporate rewards: Another round of PTO.