So…after June’s New Thing, I now know what kind of job is completely and utterly NOT for me:
A life of crime.
It started as an accident. If this doesn’t comfort you, please, stop reading. It only gets worse.
The week before this incident had been extremely hot; but, working in Clarksville, I was reluctant to roll down my windows any for fear of someone stealing something…including my car. It is a very old car, the kind you could easily Hotwire. After my rear view mirror fell off into my lap from the oven-like temperatures, my resolve weakened and the next morning I rolled down my drivers side window just a crack. I have smaller-than-adverage arms (though don’t let that fool you: I am very strong!), so I did a quick check to make sure that I couldn’t squeeze my arm through the crack. If I couldn’t, nobody could. Satisfied, I went into the building and started my day at work.
Fast forward until 9:45.
I was happily clicking away on the kiosk when the loudest clap of thunder EVER shook the building. Looking out a window, I see rain in alarming quantities pouring out of the sky…and in my mind’s eye I could just see it pouring through the cracked window, right into my seat. My coworkers say I shrieked and ran outside, using my care guide as a mini-umbrella. (FYI: this is neither an appropriate or functional use of a care guide.)
Sure enough, I get out there and my seat is looking decidedly wet; my hand automatically went to my side to fetch my keys out of my purse–only to meet the results of being a rule-abiding employee. My purse, cell phone, keys and all is still in my locker…back in the building.
There were two smart things to do in this situation: I did neither. Instead, I begin twisting my arm down into the minuscule gap between glass and metal in an attempt to reach the door lock. Meeting with failure, I once again ignored the intelligent option of simply going to get my keys. In the end, I got my arm through the gap, unlocked the door, rolled up the window and went back inside wet to the skin. Seriously. There were puddles and housekeepers gathering in my wake.
And, of course, no sooner do I get inside and tell the story to my amused coworkers than it stops raining. So, the results of my first breaking and entering: twenty minutes to unlock a door, enough swear words to alert both nearby police and pastors and this
It took a week for this to fade; one week of constantly retelling this story because I couldn’t think of a less embarrassing and more legal explanation for my injuries.
Perhaps I shouldn’t mention the locksmith van parked two spaces over from me that day