It started with sneaky forbidden glances stolen while passing in the hallway.
My boss brought in homemade cookies from a party he’d had over the weekend. They were homemade chocolate chip cookies wrapped in sheer Saran Wrap (Whatever happened to the decency of wrapping sweets in more chaste tin foil, or even the slightly more opaque wax paper?) and tied with a hot-pink bow. That’s right, pink bow and everything. I mean I probably could have ignored the plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies and just gone on about my business, but the hot-pink bow was just so eye-catchingly prim. Upon further furtive investigation I noticed the Saran Wrap was ever-so-slightly undone, beckoning. I resisted the Lolitan plate of cookies for two days, but at last fell victim to the simple, coquettish naievete and stole two small-ish cookies. Nobody would have to know.
It progressed to “just-this-once” illicit meetings in the kitchen.
Everyone knows what happens if you give a blob a cookie. Sure enough, not two days later I thought that since I’d already blown the week starting off with two homemade chocolate chip cookies, I might as well enjoy a 3:00PM non-diet Coke through and end-severed Twizzler. I mean, really, why not? Also, if there are Twizzlers on hand and you DON’T make a soda straw from one while ravenously devouring three others, what’s the purpose of your life?
Now it’s just flagrant.
With the exodus of several school-age employees leaving their summer jobs to return to school in the fall comes send off parties. Everyone looks forward to send-off parties because, of course, it’s a chance to have lunch on the office, but also, it’s not like anyone requests chicken Caesars for their send-off luncheon. They want pizza. And lots of it. Not only do they want pizza, they want to know what kind of pizza YOU want them to order. By now my defenses are shot, my holdout it weakened, and my give-a-damn is flat un-fixable.
I considered holding out, and even formulated the beginnings of the inclination of attending a pizza luncheon with a brown-bag healthy alternative. But before I could even complete the cognitive formation of such a heinous blobless thought, I grabbed three slices of pepperoni and pineapple, cracked a non-diet coke, and settled for a seat in the middle of the room in full view of everyone. I engaged with this lunch in a level of PDA generally reserved for high-school sophomores on the top bleacher at away games or over-bleached cougars lingering over fourth martinis at suburban piano bars. Everyone saw. Everyone knew.
And I didn’t even care.