I have an unwritten policy that I won’t write anything specific about work. There are two reasons for this. The first is that there is nothing particularly funny about where I work. I will, however, probably write about where I used to work at some point. It wasn’t “haha” funny, more like tragically funny…kind of like when small children run full tilt into a wall because they decided to play tag inside while blindfolded. You know you’re not supposed to laugh, but they had it coming. Anyway…we all have daily problems, and no one wants to read about mine. The second is that I truly like my new job, and I have no idea if anyone from my office reads this, so I would prefer to say nothing, keep everyone happy, and keep my job. Plus, a lot of the ladies feel the need to bring me food, which kind of rocks out loud, and I don’t want to screw up a good thing. There are advantages to being the only young male in an office full of women.

This isn’t really work-related, it just happened at work today. I was leaving the restroom, and stopped to wash my hands. Hand washing has been beaten into me since childhood (literally…Mom used to beat me with a sink and rub soap into my eyes if I forgot). Between home, and my various jobs at sandwich shops and as a server, it’s just one of those things that is now ingrained into me. Hopefully also with everyone reading this, seeing as how I think I’ve shaken most of your hands or been touched (in a friendly, non-Michael-Jackson kind of way) by most of you.

Sorry for the diatribe there. Have I mentioned that I’m easily distracted? Anyway, the sinks where I work are either located farther back than at most places, or my arms are shrinking (possibly because of some weird disease I caught from one of my non-hand-washing-friends), because I have to lean against the countertop slightly to turn the water on and off. Today there was standing water at the front of the counter that I didn’t see, mainly because real water isn’t bright blue like in cartoons and in children’s picture books. So, as I backed away from the sink, I noticed in the mirror that I now had a giant wet spot right on my crotch. So much for my big boy pants…I really thought I was ready this time.

I tried to walk at an angle, back to my Cubicle of Doom(very similar to Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, except it only has three walls, no door, and doesn’t restore my strength. Come to think of it, it has nothing in common with the Fortress of Solitude, except for the capitalization of the first letter in each word), and also took the path that led me past the fewest desks, because I’m fairly new at my office, having just started at the end of November, and I don’t want to be known as Mr. WeeWee Pants. While I have met everyone at least once, I still don’t know a lot of their names, and I’m sure they don’t all know mine, so nicknames at this point are more likely to stick. I’m thinking of running quickly from place to place…maybe I can get a cool nickname like “Dash,” although with my luck it would wind up being “Zippy” or “Scooter.”.