Embarrassment at Work

(Wow. John links to me after I've posted my most boring entry. Thought I'd post something else today to give the new visitors something a little more ... well, a little more likely to make them consider coming back. Welcome. Thanks for dropping by.)

Yesterday at work, by the time I left, my hair (which is usually nice and curly) was completely straight, with a tiny little pony tail hanging off the side, held in place by a scrunchie that was way too large for the job.

This because "toying with my hair" is apparently a big part of my coping mechanism when I'm having trouble figuring out how to get something written.

This was a bit of a problem when I first started this job (nearly ten years ago). I work in the chambers of a judge. There was one other judge who had this remarkable sense of timing and would walk in my office to ask a question ONLY when I had my hair on top of my head in a rubber band, or was diving under my desk in search of a renegade M&M, or something equally embarrassing.

One day, my judge wasn't at work, and I had a question that needed answering. I was advised to go ask this other judge. I was scared to death. Not because I was intimidated by the man himself -- I just had a history of never actually having a complete conversation with him without making an ass of myself.

But, y'know, the question had to be answered. Work and all. I cautiously knocked on his (open) office door, and he invited me in. Offered me a seat. I sat down on a chair, next to which his briefcase was open on the floor.

I ask my question. He answers it. We talk about other fascinating legal matters. Something in my mind says, "Wow! I did it! I got through an entire conversation with this judge without doing something totally stupid!"

I stand to leave, step into his open briefcase, scatter papers everywhere, and totter toward the ground as I hear the slit in my skirt rip to unfortunate new heights.