All in a Day

These are not mine, although that is an impressive collection.  They actually come from here.

On any given workday around 1:45 p.m. my manager makes the rounds down to our cubes to check and see if we need to make a last minute run to the cafeteria before they close at 2.  This “last call” is what generally prompts the very unnecessary purchase of some kind of king size candy bar or some other such thing that I definitely don't need.  Today, I got water.  Not only am I trying to undo a little damage brought on by one too many sandwiches (and candy bars apparently), but, water is good for you.  Me.  I mean everyone.

Standing up, my manager makes a comment about my being very tall today.  As he looks at my shoes in one of those “how does she walk in those things” looks, I say something about a summer in flip flops making my feet wussies and it’s not that the shoes are hard to walk in, my feet just don’t like anything touching the tops of them because they’ve gotten used to flip flops.

Ahhhh, he says – trying to understand but having the one eyebrow up look that means, “women are completely illogical” as all men, more often than not, do…

As we walk down the aisle (still talking shoes) someone in another cubicle says, “hey, did you hear about the woman who fell off her shoes and died?”  I of course say, “Was it Lady GaGa? Please tell it me it was!”  She says no in sort of a way that means, I don’t know who Lady GaGa is (I’m thinking at this point it’s probably a good thing I didn’t call her by what I usually call her which is, Lady Gag) but then tells me, and the rest of our “Last Call” group a story of a woman who, while walking down a flight of stairs in six inch stilettos, fell and landed in some such way that the granite or marble that the stairs were made of slit her throat.  And here I was thinking this was going to be an amazing “Death By Stiletto” kind of story, you know, like a six inch spike to the eye kind of story.  Alas, it was not.  Instead, she just fell.  I say, “No, the shoes didn’t kill her, it was the stairs” my manager adds in, “Yeah, sounds like operator error”.  Because really, no self respecting shoe is going to kill it's owner.  That's just bad PR.

I continue to explain that the reason the tops of my poor little toes hurt today is because I have been wearing flip-flops all summer and that the reason I wear flip flops all summer is because, well, I can.  There is no specific rule against wearing flip flops and since there is no specific rule I don't have to apply any self control and therefore wear flip flops.  Translation: my toes hurting today is entirely your fault for not making a rule that I HAVE to wear real grownup people shoes at work.

See how that works folks?

I still don't think he's going to make a rule, but I have sufficiently placed blame in the proper direction for my poor little sore toes.  We don't want a rule anyway. Flip flops are easy. And fun. And cheap. And they make annoying little slappy noises as you traverse cubeland.

Yay for not dressing like a drunken homeless toddler today!