Ava’s out all week. She’s trying to use up her vacation time because Bank of No Forks won’t let you roll over any vacation time. Essentially that means that the entire office is trying to fit in all their days by the end of the year. There’s hardly anyone here on any given day.
With Ava gone all week, I have to get my amusement where I can get it.
Some back story. The night janitors who come to our office after hours are fairly worthless. The only reason I’m convinced that they come into our office at all is to use our sink to dump their mop buckets. Apparently, they are also moonlighting at the zoo and, before they get to our office, they mop out the elephant enclosure. Our sink drains about as fast as molasses so every morning when we come into make coffee the sink has a five-inch ring of mud in it. Grooooooooss.
I had our receptionist complain about it to building maintenance. I love to sic the receptionist on people. She’s like an attack dog with ribbons in its hair.
Flash forward to today. I’m in my office. Jojo Kitty is asleep on my desk. The phone is ringing with disgruntled customers. I’m considering getting drunk. It’s fairly typical for a Monday morning. The only difference is that Ava isn’t across the hall.
The receptionist comes into my office during a lull and plops herself down in a chair and grabs the Self magazine on my desk. I have no idea why this magazine comes to my house, but it shows up every month without fail. I assure you I am not paying anyone for it. It has stupid articles like how to make your hair look like Kate Middleton’s (I suggest you buy a good wig), or that if you don’t sleep well, it could be that
you’re afraid of the dark and don’t even know it (eye roll).
The receptionist leafed through it and read me the headlines and commented on pictures and features and such. She stopped when she got to a pull out section on yoga. Clearly she’s never tried yoga cause she looked at these poses and acted like they’re so easy. The added whammy on these poses is that you’re supposed to do them against a wall amping up the pressure on your arm or whatever other spindly appendage is supposed to be balancing your weight. She shows me a plank where the skinny girl’s feet are on the wall and she’s perfectly straight.
“Oh, that looks easy,” she says.
“Really?” I look at her in disbelief. I happen to love yoga and that shit looks impossible to me.
“Sure. It’s just like a push up.”
“OK, try it right there.” I pointed towards an empty space in my office.
The whole thing worked out as well as you’d expect only now when the landlord comes down to see to our complaints, I’m gonna mention the feet prints on my wall.