That's not really the subject of this post, it's just the name of that Death Cab for Cutie song that has been circling my brain for the last 24 hours. I was going to title this post something powerful and In Your Face(!)--something like, "I'm Back, B*tches!" But I never really left. I just wasn't keeping the internets in the communication loop of my life.
But I digress.... You are all familiar with that show, "How I Met Your Mother," yes? Well something happened recently, and I feel in 17-or-so years I'll be cozy-ed up in front of a warm fire with my kids in our Up North Log Cabin during the December Holiday and say, "Hey kids, did I ever tell you about the time I almost lit myself on fire in front of your father?"
So this is what happened.....fade out....Bah Bah Bah Bah Bah Bah da Bah da Bah da da da dada dada dada daaa….
Setting the stage-Bad day at work, really Bad Day, and I'm totally stressed. Like crazy Harpy-hair stressed. I notice in the nearly empty parking lot that my office crush is still at the office, working late like me. Which he never does. I feel like the Universe is sending me a neon-flashing, wacky-inflatable-balloon-waving-guy, airplane-banner-in-the-sky opportunity--TALK TO THIS GUY ALREADY!!!!11!!!!1!! So I get my conversation opener ready and walk to his cube.
A little logistical info you might need--he sits in a different room, in a cube facing away from the entrance. The cube walls are low enough that you can see if somebody is sitting at a desk. I set the scene because this is what I was expecting, to be able to peek through the doorway and see if he was sitting at his desk. Then I could compose myself and ask if I could bum a smoke, and would he join me?
That was the plan. The imaginary plan I cooked up sitting at my desk. The reality was, when I peeked through the doorway to see if he was sitting at his desk-- he saw me. Because he was Sitting On His Desk. Now I'm thinking, 'Sh*t, he saw me, kinda committed now.' So I pull the rest of my body through the doorway and walk to his cube. What I couldn't see, and didn't process, was that he was sitting ON his desk because he was TALKING TO HIS SUPERVISOR. At this point my head essplodes, and I am dead.
Not really, but I might as well have been, because my autonomic nervous system stepped up and was in control of what happened next. My brilliant ultra-cool sultry 'can I bum a smoke?' morphed into "You're a smoker, right?" Yeah awesome, no? And then his supervisor starts chuckling. Not laughing, not even a snigger so much, but a creepy ‘hehehe.’ Yeah, guy, I know you know what’s going on right now, but you don’t have to add a creepy chuckle.
He says "Um...yeah," like in a 'hmm, am I going to get in trouble for being a smoker?' kind of way. So I follow up with, "I've had a really stressful day, and I quit, haven’t had a smoke in three months, but I really need a cig right now," accompanied by begging hands clasped motions. At which point he visibly relaxes, and pulls out a box of Reds with a smile on his face. Fight or Flight? Fight or Flight, b*tches?! It was Flight. Stumbling, barely functioning, going to die of embarrassment (even though I'm already essploded)--Flight.
But Wait—There’s More!
I run back to my desk, throw stuff in the drawers, scoop up the rest, and book it to my car, because I am so mortified. Arms loaded (notebook, travel mug, business cards, purse, gym bag, and newly acquired cig—just setting the scene here people), I finally fumble my car’s back door open to dump my sh*t, when I hear—“You need a light?”
And here’s the visual—I am a**-end out the back seat of my hatchback, flustered, with Harpy-hair. And did I mention its 99 degrees Fahrenheit outside?
I drop most everything, and nearly hit my head on the door frame as I jerk to a standing position. Surprise! It’s thoughtful Office Crush. He has his lighter out and ready. Because he’s the kinda guy that holds doors open. He’s the kinda guy who even waits for you at said door if you pull up to the parking lot 60 seconds after he does. He’s the kinda guy who remembers stuff you tell him, because he actually listens to what you are saying. And he’s the kinda guy who when a dame asks for a cig, makes sure said dame has a way to light said cig. I guess you’d call that “Old-fashioned.”
And I guess you’d call me a “spaz,” ‘cause I’m all, “Uh, yeah, didn’t think that far ahead. Thanks.”
Now remember when I listed all of the items I carried out of the building? Remember how I mentioned I had business cards? Weeeellll, I happened to be clutching them in the same hand I was holding the cig. And neglected to drop them in my back seat when I was startled. And was still actually clutching them as I attempted to light my newly acquired cig.
Flick. Flick. “Wait…..I’m going to light myself on fire.”
Yup—said that out loud. At least he laughed. And not at me, more like I’d made a funny joke. Which made me all warm and fuzzy inside. Did I mention it was 99 degrees FAHRENHEIT?
That’s pretty much the end of the story, cause I either blackout from heat exhaustion or my head essploded. Again.
…Life is sweet, in the belly of the beast…
3 months ago