Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Pig in a Wig


“It’s lunchtime,” I sing, logging off my computer. I throw on my black leather jacket and race for the elevator banks, grateful for the break.

Also waiting for the elevator are two coworkers having a work-related discussion. I know I can contribute absolutely nothing to it, so I concentrate on mentally rushing the elevator to arrive.

Ding! The doors open. The three of us pile in. I stab the 1 button, then CLOSE DOOR. I stand close to the door, so that I can get off quickly.

The elevator slows to a stop at 7 and the doors open. A short woman waddles on and stands in the back. She makes no eye contact, but wears an ugly blue jacket, white sneakers, and cheap black wig. She strikes me as vaguely familiar. Then it hits me. I saw her at the deli across the street yesterday at lunch, so her fixed stare is likely mental preparation for lunch.

When the elevator slowed at 1, I figured that, since the little piggy had positioned herself in the back of the car that I would have to stand to the side and let her out first, something I was frankly too hungry to do.

I really didn’t have time to react, as the little swine raced out the doors as soon as they opened, clearly taking advantage of the “ladies first” rule, and just about knocking me over in the process. Unfortunately for her, she just pissed me off. I would have gladly let her out first, but she obviously felt entitled to just make a break for it. She has no time for etiquette, only food.

I decide to race her. I am not going to run, but instead, use extra long strides, her little stocky legs will surely hold her back. I watched her go through the first set revolving doors and went for the other one, surely pushing it harder than the engineers would have liked.

While waiting on the curb for the traffic to pass, I wonder, Where is she? Shouldn’t Miss Piggy have caught up to me right now, snorting and grunting and kicking up dust? Any second I’m going to glance over and see her standing there, making a face that says I’ll eat you, too.

At the deli, I am first at the salad line. Someone else comes in second and piggy is third. Salad line? I think, Shouldn’t she be at the pizza counter?

Back at work, I tell Lisa what happened, feeling victorious, but soon, feel embarrassed that A) I did this and B) that I’m telling someone.

“I’m so immature,” I confess.
“Yes, you are immature,” she tells me, “that’s why I like you.”

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Hee hee!! I love being part of your bloggyness.

homerundesign said...
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homerundesign said...
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