Thursday, June 16, 2011
Got Back? Why Yes, I Believe I Do
When the meeting (for which this 17-person breakfast arrived) had ended, I raced in there, foaming at the mouth. This caterer makes a spread that would turn an anorexic back. I had a bagel, some fruit and coffee. I may or may not have gone in for seconds (or thirds), but that's not the point.
The point is that now, my feeding schedule would be off by several hours. At noon, I didn't buy lunch, taking a leisurely walk around the neighborhood instead. At 2:00, my internal lunch bell went off.
I went across the street to the crappy deli and up picked some grilled chicken and salad from the overpriced salad bar.
As I walked back towards my office building, there were two African American women walking in the courtyard just ahead of me; a thin girl around my height, and a shorter, plump girl, who seemed familiar, although I wouldn't know until I got a better view of her.
After today, I will never forget her, no matter what the angle.
Because these two girls were walking a little too slowly for me, my sidewalk rage commanded that I use the other revolving door to beat them to the turnstiles. By now, I had figured out that the short woman was from the 7th floor - the most depressing, yet entertaining, floor in the building, home of the Walking Litter Box, Mrs. Crab Pee and Pig in a Wig. We had spoken before in the elevator and I found her to be very friendly and funny. She had a very infectious laugh, yet I knew she was miserable working on that floor. Still, I looked forward to chatting with her again.
But after today, I might start wearing disguises.
Since I'd beaten the two girls to the turnstile, I scanned my card first. Nothing happened and I stood there like a hungry mannequin before scanning it again. By now, the tall girl scanned her card at the turnstile next to me, so I moved over to that one.
When I turned around, the shorter girl was standing transfixed at the turnstile, staring at where I had just been.
I assumed the frozen look on her face meant, "Thanks for cutting me off, you stupid motherfucker."
But no. It meant something completely different.
I said to her, "It's broken. That turnstile is broken."
"I was looking at your pants," she said to me as we got into the elevator together.
I looked down. Maybe she likes pinstripes? I have the type of coworkers who will not tell you that you've had a piece of lettuce stuck in your teeth for the past four hours, so my paranoia kicked in and I started brushing the back of my pants as I said, "Oh, no. Is there something on my pants?" Did I rip them? What horror was about to be revealed to me?
"No. They're just tight." Her eyes widened as she said this. So, yeah. Definite horror.
In an instant, I heard Larry's voice in my head. "Spandex," is what he says to me when he's trying to tell me that I've gained some weight and that my pants are a little too tight for work.
I now regretted every single fucking carbohydrate I had ever eaten. I laughed a bit, and then I'm sure my face turned red. In my defense, I have been working out aggressively lately, using the leg press at the machine like I was paid to do so. Clearly it's been working; I just hadn't noticed.
While the tall girl laughed and tried to stop her, the short girl began to hint that she very much liked what she saw back there, using words like "firm" and "round", while making suggestive clawing hand gestures. And I thought men were the pigs when it came to unwanted sexual advances.
From now on, I'm taking the freight elevator.