So there we were, a roomful of field scientists forced to spend two gorgeous autumn days inside, in a funny-smelling conference room, discussing our strategic plan. You know, mission statements, vision statements, critical success factors.
Ugh.
Enter my boss. She’s extremely cool and laid-back. In fact, we had sat across one of the conference tables from one another and played paper football on the first hellish day of this experience.
On the second day, we all staggered into the soul-crushingly striped room after having gone out on a cross-town pub crawl the night before. I’ve not done that many tequila shots since I was 21…and that was a while back. We sat at the tables all morning, guts heaving, heads in hands, feigning interest, health, and intelligence.
“Perhaps if I clutch my head in my trembling hands and stare at the carpet thoughtfully, people won’t notice the cold sheen of perspiration on my forehead and won’t suspect that I’m staring at one spot not out of pensive regard for the wisdom of their words, but to keep myself from puking or passing out. What a glorious morning.”
By this time, the complimentary Krispy Kremes had become hopelessly cold and congealed, but there came a time when it didn’t matter. I simply had to put something in my stomach, or I would proactively leverage my paradigm all over the fucking floor.
I retrieved a doughnut, returned to the table, and began tentatively munching. My boss was horrified. “That thing’s cold.”
:munch munch: “Yep.”
“God, that looks awful. I’ll bet you can feel the congealed lard on the roof of your mou…”
“Motherfucker, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it.”
Now, the line was delivered with what I’d hoped was gruff, good-natured…something. But it must have come out in a feral snarl, because I could see that a Line had been Crossed.
Man I hope she doesn’t hold it against me.
