Anyway, the object of the quiz is for anyone who so wishes to correctly identify the day of the week upon which the events I'm about to hyperbolically describe took place. Are you ready? Good, then wipe the sleep out of your eyes and the drool off of your chin and let's begin.
So there I was, class, heading straight to my very first physical therapy appointment for my fuckered-up shoulder. It was a lovely day, with a light breeze and a hint of itchy-eyes/watery-nose in the air—happy spring, and gesundheit!—and I'd never been to the Bent Building, but I had me some highly adequate directions from my referring physician and I was eager to make some progress away from not missing a single allowable dose of anti-inflammatory medications and sleep constantly interrupted by each and every ill-advised roll-over.
Up the stairs I went (and up and up), because there wasn't anything wrong with my legs, and into my appointment I was promptly ushered. My therapist was bright and smiling and efficient, and she showed me stuff to do and told me what was wrong—regular readers may recall that it was basically, "Your posture sucks and you could have dealt with the strain of that, but bashing your shoulder into concrete was just the last straw for those poor, abused muscles."—and then she massaged it. The massage was deep and intense, and it brought tears to my eyes as the therapist easily identified the tense, mottled ball of muscle that I'd been whining about for weeks.
Suffice to say, perhaps, that it was a very productive—if somewhat painful—appointment, and when it was over, I hauled ass back to work because I had a lot to do, fresh from my very first Corporate-sponsored business trip, where I'd done a LOT, but none of it the routine, mind-numbing, soul-depleting busy-work I was typically paid to do.
And there, dear snoring readers, on my keyboard, was a note. The note was from Boss Lady. And the note said: "When you get back, see me."
Being a sensible person and a mature adult, I experienced a moment of sheer panic, rapidly overwhelmed with anticipatory pissed-offedness. She's going to tell me I'm laid off again! I'D BETTER NOT BE FREAKING LAID OFF AGAIN! What? Common sense? I would have none of that stuff, thankyouverymuch, but I had no interest in prolonging this unexpected, shoulder-tensing, stress-laden moment, either, so I promptly made my way through the Cube Maze and stopped inquiringly at the entrance to Boss Lady's substantially-proportioned workspace.
"Hello!" she said with a warm smile that I copied with only an entirely overt air of suspicion.
She folded her hands and continued to force a grin, which didn't do much to ease my concern—nothing, in fact, which is rather less than "much"—and she offered me a seat, which I promptly took.
"Well, you're it today!" she said.
"It?" As in, "TAG, YOU'RE IT?" I hope I won something. Because I'D BETTER NOT BE FREAKING LAID OFF AGAIN! I thought, as I continued to
"Oh?" I said, with unstated benignness, and I neatly folded my hands on the table in front of me. And then forced my knuckles to unwhiten by methodically relaxing my hands.
"Yes," Boss Lady nodded, her smile still in force. And then she sighed, and I could finally smell the hint of wryness behind the smile, JUST as the Boss Lady got down to the task of Revealing The Truth:
"You've been selected for a random drug screening."
And I tell you—HEY! WAKE THE HECK UP! This is where it gets funny!—I was never so happy to have my civil rights trampled upon by Corporate's Self-Righteous NEED To Know What I'm Ingesting On My Private Time. Because, HEY! I'M NOT GETTING LAID OFF AGAIN!
Yet.
I was smiling now in earnest, but I quickly shook off my sudden and over-happy relief, and paid attention. Which was good, because Corporate had quite the well-structured "random" drug-testing procedure, of course, and I had a mere hour to accomplish my second Pee-Test inside of my not-quite-six-months of employment. At which point I was intensely grateful for my on-going Morning Diet Pepsi habit.
"Do you know where the Bent Building is?" Boss Lady sweetly inquired.
"Actually, yes! I just came from a physical therapy appointment there."
Whereupon Boss Lady—who was already aware of my graceless, shoulder-smashing incident and the flurry of medical follow-ups—kindly inquired how that had gone, and I briefly but enthusiastically answered her.
"You just need to go up to the Xth floor ..."
"I just came from there!"
"... and go to the Occupational Therapy desk ..."
I truly couldn't help myself now, and I laughed.
"That's right across from the Physical Therapy desk!"
Boss Lady laughed, too.
"I could have called you there!"
(And she could have, except I hadn't given her my personal cell phone number, and I still haven't.)
"Well, I'd better get going, then," I said, still chortling, and obviously not concerned with the fact that Corporate had their suspicions about me.
(Little Girl's daddy, when I relayed the story to him, simply said, "They must know what music you like. Hell, I'd drug-test you, too!")
And so, off I went. Back to the VERY BUILDING I'd come just from, back to the VERY FLOOR I'd just been to—though I'd never, in 39 rather odd years, been to that building OR that floor before—and at the desk across from the desk where I'd just been, I marched up and grinned at the guy behind the desk, and I said:
"Hi! I just won the prize at Corporate! Do you have a cup for me?"
(He laughed, and not even in a "Oh great, another freak that thinks she's funny" kind of way.)
AND NOW, class, pray tell ... what day of the week was it?
(As if you didn't already know, but the answer's in the comments just in case.)
Class dismissed.
3 comments:
Monday. (As if you didn't know.)
I like the idea of companies laying people off by telling them they're "it." Or maybe duck, duck, goose.
Ha! You would! (Duck, duck, goose at least sounds sporting ...)
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