I've been at my job for three weeks now, and I'm not going to lie to you, it's pretty fuckin' sweet. However, I've been getting nervous recently that it's too sweet. I've yet to have one of my characteristic unbelievably awkward encounters. Sure, there's been a few awkward run-ins here and there, like when I was on the phone with someone yesterday and forgot the word "ergonomic," so I said "ergo-," fake sneezed and then quickly mumbled "nominomical" under my breath. Or when Rusty, a black co-worker, brought me a molasses brownie and I said, "thank you. [PERIOD, pause to notice the main ingredient of said brownie] Brown sugar!" and it came out more like one fluid "thank you [COMMA] Brown Sugar!" I swear I'm not the kind of girl who creates racially-charged nicknames for her co-workers during her first few weeks on the job. It takes at least a month.
I've been a nervous-wreck waiting for the moment when my awkward destiny would inevitably play out. And it did. Tonight. Lemme 'splain...
My company's studio is the penthouse floor of a building downtown. It's gorgeous and huge and wonderful and oh em gee, but the point is that in an effort to be good neighbors, we let other businesses in our building rent the space for their events for free. The other day, Ronald, an assistant from the eighth floor, came up and wanted to talk about renting our space.
Ronald looks like his name should be Ronald. I can best describe him as looking like a very thin Sloth from Goonies. A very thin Sloth with a penchant for silk ties, diamond stud earrings and Scientology. Ronald is clearly a very uncomfortable person and probably makes any and all conversations he has ungodly awkward. So, when he has conversations with someone like me who's already kind of awkward, communication becomes reduced to a series of idiotic gurgling noises and uncomfortable eye shifting. As he was walking out of the studio the other day, I noticed that Ronald has a clubfoot. Like a straight-up, bona fide clubfoot. I'm not making fun, I'm not judging, I just thought, "huh, a clubfoot. -shrugs- Blokay, well that explains that," and went on with my day.
That afternoon, I was walking through the lobby headed towards the revolving door to go home. I pushed the revolving door open and took about two steps before it slammed to a halt. I looked back and realized what was going on— Ronald's clubfoot was stuck in the revolving door behind me. I am in no way kidding. In an effort to remedy the situation, I backed up and pulled the door open to free his foot. Apparently I pulled the door back too far, because when I pushed it forward again, it acted like a sweeper that slammed Ronald in the back and propelled him forward in between the doors with me, a space that is designed for one person. So there Ronald and I are, body-to-body, foot-to-clubfoot, shuffling as one unit trying to go through the revolving door. As we were released into the street, I turned back to apologize, but Ronald, who was visibly upset, avoided eye-contact and took off down the street like a bat outta hell. He was literally making a pumping motion with his left arm to provide extra momentum for him to drag his clubfoot along faster, in a sort of modified shuffle/run.
It was then that I realized that I had managed to out-awkward a clubfooted, silk-tie wearing, Sloth resembling, cult member named Ronald. FML 'aint got shit on me.