Today while walking through the plant at work I noticed something about myself. I like walking through small spaces to see if I’ll fit. I haven’t come across one that won’t allow me passage, and I’m not sure of my reaction when I do. Truthfully, I’m giving myself plenty of space. I just like to assess a tight squeeze, boldly march forward and then congratulate myself on not being too fat to fit.
Some of these spaces may require a slight turn, so as not to knock over a pallet with my behind. Of course, I return to forward-facing to finish the journey so as not to let others on to my tricks. Again, the quick turnaround is rewarded with a self-congratulatory pat on the back. Metaphorically. If I started literally patting myself on the back every time I walked in between some stacked skids I’d definitely have some explaining to do. Although, the behavior would match the hairstyle I seem to be rocking. I look crazy. My purple has faded to a sort of 70s color spectrum. I want to say “mauve” but I have no idea what that color looks like. I may as well have gone into the salon with a swatch from that beanbag in your parents’ basement. It’s bad. My once edgy rat-tail and shaved side have morphed into a mess of overgrowth and bobby pins. This is the frumpiest I’ve looked in quite some time. I’m tempted to post a picture as proof, but I’ll let you all just imagine the damage. It’s pretty good.
Perhaps my current frumpy display is the reason I have to seek out moments of joy by squeezing in between pallets and drums of paint at work (and write about it). Nah. That’s not it.