Connie’s situation took a craptastic turn very early in the day. It’s not wise to sprint into traffic while wearing black, slip-on loafers. The damn shoe flew off as she ran across the street to catch the bus to work. Too bad public transportation does not wait for wardrobe malfunctions.
But trekking to work on foot wasn’t much of a bother. That is, if you consider hiking 20 city blocks on a muggy, 82-degree morning to be no big deal. Never mind she’s wearing the busted up shoe that got run over by an SUV, and a skirt that now has a fine line of butt crack sweat up the back, thanks to the forced power walk.
Perhaps it goes without saying, but Connie is feeling stabby.
Coincidentally, she forgot both her wallet and that fancy lunch she packed (veggies & hummus on a spinach wrap). The day is getting stabbier by the millisecond. When noontime rolled around Connie opened up the emergency can of chicken she had hidden in the deep, dark crevice of her desk drawer. You know, just in case the apocalypse hits. She would need food to survive.
The expiration date on the can: March 25, 2012.
Eff it. Connie ate the chicken anyway. How unfortunate that expired canned meat tastes like cat food. At least there were some of those leftover crispy noodles from last week’s Chinese takeout to sprinkle on the chicken.
But, ohhh damn. By the time 3pm rolled around, Connie’s stomach started gurgling — and you know what kind of gurgle I’m talking about. The kind that makes you nervous and causes an immediate assessment of your proximity to the rest room, complete with increase heart rate due to the stressful logistics involved in hoping you actually make it to the toilet. There may also be hot flashes involved, which Connie did indeed experience.
Why Connie, why did you eat ‘dem old chickens?
She held her butt cheeks as tight as possible while taking short, quick strides in the direction of the ladies room (don’t act like you’ve never had to do this). Harold from the Janitorial Department stopped her on the way.
“Hey, Cons. How’s your day going?”
“Harold, please. I told you not to call me Cons. My day is fine. Is the bathroom open?”
…more stomach gurgles…
He was just about to put up the CLOSED sign to take care of a toilet overflow.
“Bathroom’s closed, Cons. You’ll have to — ”
Connie didn’t wait for him to answer. She barreled through the bathroom door as her fears of intestinal liquid lava culminated into a scene from the explosion of Mount Vesuvius. Busted up shoes & butt crack sweat were minor inconveniences compared to hot lava. She made it just in time.
Fifteen minutes later, Connie wiped the sweat from her brow as she exited the bathroom to find Harold waiting, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. Their eyes met but no words were spoken by either person. There was just a knowing of what went down and the humanly respect not to say anything about it.
As Connie walked down the hall and turned the corner, Harold pulled out a gas mask from under his cleaning cart and stepped into the bathroom. He, too, is always prepared for apocalyptic-style events.
The stabbiness of Connie’s day may go down in history, but at least she has Yoga class after work to help melt the stress away. It’s just a lowdown dirty shame Connie didn’t realize the Yoga pants she packed are unraveling on the seam of the butt. Please cross your fingers for Connie. May her forward bends in class be accomplished without incident (but I seriously doubt it). THE END