I'm sitting at my desk at work listening to my coworker scarf down his afternoon snack: microwave popcorn. I know there are varied and righteous opinions surrounding the production of microwave popcorn in an office environment, but I won't address them here and now. I just wish he'd use a damn bowl because the rumpling of paper and rustling of kernels every time he shoves his grimy little fist into the bag to extract a handful is making me crazy. Not to mention that it's 79°F (26°C) in this office and has been for MONTHS despite the fact that it's mild and mid-fifties outside. I'm just as miserable in a chilly office as the stereotypical woman, but doesn't thirty degrees of heating seem excessive for a city that doesn't freeze?
We've called the facility management folks out countless times and they've concluded there's nothing to be done except to bring in fans. Now we have two fans circulating all the time and now it's 79°F and windy, which really doesn't help much. We have learned, however, that our office was never designed for human occupation. Three of us are stuck in this windowless hellhole roasting away when it was really just supposed to contain files...super-secret confidential files that are so important they require three humans to guard them. My job is so stupid.
I went to a bachelorette party on Saturday night -- my first one if you don't count the one the Big Boss threw for my old boss, which, while it did involve lingerie and tequila and took place in a bar, was hardly risqué. Saturday's party was a burlesque dancing lesson, and it had the potential to be as risqué as desired. (Let me interrupt myself here to say that I detest dancing, I never go to the clubs, I have at least two left feet and no sense of rhythm whatsoever -- no, really - it's why I learned the flute instead of the drums, which is really kind of a shame because it'd have been so much more fun to date my ex-boyfriend if I could have been the drummer in his band. So picture me attempting to dance as resembling those doggies that dance with their human owners: precarious balance, no idea what to do with the forelimbs, only as much hip-area motion as is required to ambulate in something approaching a rhythmic fashion.) The Burlesque Professor, as the instructor called herself, brought feather boas and elbow gloves and pretty fans for all of us, taught us some moves, outlined some strategies, tips, and tricks, and then made us perform for each other at the end of class. Like, right then and there, I'm supposed to come up with something sexy and beguiling, and I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing. It was so. much. fun. Of course, whatever I came up with couldn't hold a candle to what some of the other girls did (or maybe it could precisely hold a candle without spilling even a drop of wax because I imagine it looks like I have a steel rod shoved three feet up my ass when I try to dance) but let's just say I wasn't the least talented one there, and women can be soooo supportive of each other when they desire (almost as catty as they can be to each other at other times). I don't know why I'm using "they" to refer to women there because I certainly fit the category but maybe I want to believe I'm above it or something. Clearly, I'm deluding myself.
The point, however, is that it was fun and silly and witty and sexy and unpretentious all at the same time, and I think everyone had a good time. At the end of the lesson we all got the opportunity to purchase hand-made booby tassels from the teacher. They were really cute. :)
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