Screw You Guys, I'm Going Home
On December 1, I wrote these words:
In other news, I found out this morning that, because I am the newest associate at my firm, it is my responsibility to dress up as the elf for our annual holiday luncheon.
I would like for you to read that sentence again. I will even type it, once more, just for you: because I am the newest associate at the firm, it is my responsibility to dress up AS THE ELF for our annual holiday luncheon.
I don't know if anything about that sentence...jumped out at you. I do not include it here to inform you that I am the newest associate. Nor did I include said sentence so that you would be jealous of our surely-fabulous upcoming lunch spectacular. No. No, what I am really trying to convey, is that APPARENTLY, in the VERY NEAR FUTURE, I will be dressed up as an elf. At work. The costume includes tights, I was informed.
This should do much for my legal reputation. Surely, no one will ever have problems taking advice from me EVER AGAIN.
"Hmm, she sure SOUNDS like she knows what she's talking about, Bob!" "Only when she's not dressed up as an elf, Larry!" This is what I am imagining.
I am sure there will be pictures of this insanity, which I may get drunk enough to share with y'all. Until then, know that every time I see an elf on television or in the paper, every time I even think of Will Ferrell, I am filled with a slowly mounting fear. In two weeks, I will be paralyzed with terror, lying under my desk in a pair of enormous shoes with upturned toes, jingling sadly and hiding from the world.
That was then. This is now.
Yes. That is pretty much how that worked out.
Doesn't it look like I am sobbing uncontrollably? Heh. ALMOST.
But I am not [yet]. Instead, I am laughing and cringing at the same time. Laughter + Cringe = That Look. Painful, I know. It hurt my face and everything. I look like I am passing a stone.
But, in reviewing this photograph, let us not fail to notice the following:
(1) My hat;
(2) My spiky collar;
(3) My mod-elf getup; and
(4) MY SHAME.
Noticed? Appreciated? Fantasic!
And, oh. Let us not forget: The Tights.
Yeah. That is kind of how THAT worked out. I am wearing not one, but two pairs of hygenic, clean, brand-new-from-the-convenience-store-downstairs-let's-not-think-too-long-on-that-actually tights under those things. I am relatively sure I did not catch the Creeping Crotch Funk, or however the clever Gretchen described this phenomenon. But I know it was there, just...funking, in the crotch region. Waiting. Plotting. Funkily.
So. There you go. I am forever shamed. I am forever tainted. And, I just shared photographic evidence of all of this with the whole entire world.
Someone should probably buy me a drink. I am looking at you. And if you refuse, I have a pair of tights that are just dying to come live at your house, funk and all.