Daily Splatter: Lord of the Open Flies
My pants wouldn't be unzipped all the time if I still had a job. Let me explain.
Several years ago I accepted a position within a national non-profit organization that required me to work from my home. Armed with a telephone, computer, comfy chair and some inspirational knick-knacks, I set up a virtual office in a spare bedroom and began my new career.
Most of the time, working from home goes quite nicely. I actually take a certain masculine pride in the fact that I can roll out of bed, pull on whatever clothes I find on the floor (this gets interesting when my wife starts leaving her clothes lying around) and consider myself ready to face the new day. I grab some coffee, pad on up to my office make a polite amount of idle, water-cooler chit-chat with Max, my cat.
Lately, though, I have been noticing problems. With increasing frequency, typical social situations - the kind in which I have effectively functioned for years - end up becoming the kind of embarrassing episodes that I had previously considered myself incapable of producing.
Turns out, there is a problem with isolation. Acceptable behaviors tend to deteriorate when there is no social construct to encourage and/or enforce them. Being a fan of "Lord of the Flies," I understood this idea on a macro level, but never really considered the individual implications.
Further complicating matters is the fact that certain routines can become so ingrained in our daily lives that they require no conscious effort whatsoever. They are sustained through force of habit.
For example, if I were required to get up in the morning, shower, shave, and dress for some type of meaningful employment, then - well, I'd be regularly showered, shaved, and dressed. More importantly, I'd be going through the process. I would have developed what coaches and athletes call muscle-memory. If something was forgotten, say a splash of cologne or zipping up my pants, my mind would feel uneasy until I remembered. Such is the nature of repeated behavior or habit.
Unfortunately, my social construct (i.e., a workplace where I have to interact with other people) doesn't exist anymore. Sweatpants don't have zippers, Max doesn't care how bad I smell, and as long as the neighbors aren't calling the police, I can yell "Fuck!" as loud and often as I want. Old habits, contrary to popular belief, aren't so hard to break.
This is fine as long as I remain on my little island on the second floor of my house. But say I need to run out to the store during my lunch break for beef jerky, Rieslings and dental floss. (Floss is one of those things I always buy. Not because I'm obsessed with oral hygiene, but because it's cheap and makes your trip to the store seem purposeful, instead of entirely snack-related.) Weaving through the narrow aisles, I notice someone back away from me. There's a problem. It's 11:30 on a weekday. I'm smelly, unshaven, wearing a Sigma Gamma Sorority sweatshirt covered in cat hair and carrying a family-size package of dried meat. I suddenly realize that I'm the local version Ted Kazinski except that, from what I understand, he didn't have a problem keeping his fly zipped up.
Still, this was only part of the problem. During the afternoon on a weekday I wasn't likely to run into anyone important at the local Discount Drug Mart. In fact, one could argue that I fit a certain profile of the type of person you would expect (but probably prefer not) to bump into in such a place at such a time. The other part of the problem was evenings and weekends.
Before I continue, I have to tell you that I recently purchased some new boxer shorts. The tags in the back of these particular boxers were noticeable uncomfortable. Being the problem-solver that I am, I carefully removed the tags and any vestige that might cause irritation. Since then, when getting dressed in the haphazard way in which I have grown accustomed and with no tag to guide my path, I occasionally put these shorts on backwards. This has always been good for a laugh when I later recognize the mistake, especially during the subsequent, embellished re-telling to Max.
Anyway, a few weeks ago I went to a baseball game with my brother. We rarely get together, so this was kind of a treat for me. I showered, shaved and got what is to me all dressed up in nice, clean clothes (basically jeans and a baseball jersey).
We're having a good old time at the game, drinking beer and bullshitting. After a few innings, I felt the effects of the beer and headed to the men's room. It's between innings so a long line already forming, but I've beat most of the crowd. My time comes and I get up to one in a line of urinals.
I unzip and reach in to find the opening that was designed for this specific purpose. I'm searching...searching...searching... the aggressiveness of my hunt rising with each passing second. At the same moment, I am keenly aware of a growing multitude forming behind me and what must appear to them as increasingly irregular if not disturbing activity on my part.
The relative silence breaks.
"Dammit, where is it?" I hear. To my horror, it is my own voice.
I felt like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" and this was my "Oh, Fudge" moment. There was no taking it back.
Instincts immediately kicked in. Rather than flee, my reaction was to fight. Without any thought to context or appropriateness, I began to try to explain my comment to the twenty or so men who may or may not have heard me.
"I can't find it." I said, nervously chuckling and swiveling my head.
The counter punches were swift and unflinching.
"Tough break, pal,"
"Curse of the Irish."
"Imagine how difficult it is for her."
I try to cough out a laugh, but my mouth has gone dry.
"No, no. I can't find the hole." I'm not helping myself. Again, I'm struck multiple times.
"If you do, you've gone too far."
"Maybe a stall would be more appropriate."
"I'm just going to pee in the sink." I'm not sure this one was specifically directed to me.
No, no, I think. This is all a misunderstanding and I'm certain I can explain my innocence if they give me the chance. But my mind is spinning too fast.
"I mean, the..." I try frantically to gesticulate the hole that is supposed to be in my boxers with my free hand. I look like a deaf pervert signing dirty talk.
"I mean..." I'm yelling at this point. "The...the...pee hole!"
The alternative expressions of bemusement and horror on the faces around me begin to change to something resembling pity. I think I hear a collective sigh of "Oh" drift up from behind me. By the sheer grace of God, I have stumbled into a way out of this mess which I gladly accept.
I'll trade pervert for retard any day of the week.
Several years ago I accepted a position within a national non-profit organization that required me to work from my home. Armed with a telephone, computer, comfy chair and some inspirational knick-knacks, I set up a virtual office in a spare bedroom and began my new career.
Most of the time, working from home goes quite nicely. I actually take a certain masculine pride in the fact that I can roll out of bed, pull on whatever clothes I find on the floor (this gets interesting when my wife starts leaving her clothes lying around) and consider myself ready to face the new day. I grab some coffee, pad on up to my office make a polite amount of idle, water-cooler chit-chat with Max, my cat.
Lately, though, I have been noticing problems. With increasing frequency, typical social situations - the kind in which I have effectively functioned for years - end up becoming the kind of embarrassing episodes that I had previously considered myself incapable of producing.
Turns out, there is a problem with isolation. Acceptable behaviors tend to deteriorate when there is no social construct to encourage and/or enforce them. Being a fan of "Lord of the Flies," I understood this idea on a macro level, but never really considered the individual implications.
Further complicating matters is the fact that certain routines can become so ingrained in our daily lives that they require no conscious effort whatsoever. They are sustained through force of habit.
For example, if I were required to get up in the morning, shower, shave, and dress for some type of meaningful employment, then - well, I'd be regularly showered, shaved, and dressed. More importantly, I'd be going through the process. I would have developed what coaches and athletes call muscle-memory. If something was forgotten, say a splash of cologne or zipping up my pants, my mind would feel uneasy until I remembered. Such is the nature of repeated behavior or habit.
Unfortunately, my social construct (i.e., a workplace where I have to interact with other people) doesn't exist anymore. Sweatpants don't have zippers, Max doesn't care how bad I smell, and as long as the neighbors aren't calling the police, I can yell "Fuck!" as loud and often as I want. Old habits, contrary to popular belief, aren't so hard to break.
This is fine as long as I remain on my little island on the second floor of my house. But say I need to run out to the store during my lunch break for beef jerky, Rieslings and dental floss. (Floss is one of those things I always buy. Not because I'm obsessed with oral hygiene, but because it's cheap and makes your trip to the store seem purposeful, instead of entirely snack-related.) Weaving through the narrow aisles, I notice someone back away from me. There's a problem. It's 11:30 on a weekday. I'm smelly, unshaven, wearing a Sigma Gamma Sorority sweatshirt covered in cat hair and carrying a family-size package of dried meat. I suddenly realize that I'm the local version Ted Kazinski except that, from what I understand, he didn't have a problem keeping his fly zipped up.
Still, this was only part of the problem. During the afternoon on a weekday I wasn't likely to run into anyone important at the local Discount Drug Mart. In fact, one could argue that I fit a certain profile of the type of person you would expect (but probably prefer not) to bump into in such a place at such a time. The other part of the problem was evenings and weekends.
Before I continue, I have to tell you that I recently purchased some new boxer shorts. The tags in the back of these particular boxers were noticeable uncomfortable. Being the problem-solver that I am, I carefully removed the tags and any vestige that might cause irritation. Since then, when getting dressed in the haphazard way in which I have grown accustomed and with no tag to guide my path, I occasionally put these shorts on backwards. This has always been good for a laugh when I later recognize the mistake, especially during the subsequent, embellished re-telling to Max.
Anyway, a few weeks ago I went to a baseball game with my brother. We rarely get together, so this was kind of a treat for me. I showered, shaved and got what is to me all dressed up in nice, clean clothes (basically jeans and a baseball jersey).
We're having a good old time at the game, drinking beer and bullshitting. After a few innings, I felt the effects of the beer and headed to the men's room. It's between innings so a long line already forming, but I've beat most of the crowd. My time comes and I get up to one in a line of urinals.
I unzip and reach in to find the opening that was designed for this specific purpose. I'm searching...searching...searching... the aggressiveness of my hunt rising with each passing second. At the same moment, I am keenly aware of a growing multitude forming behind me and what must appear to them as increasingly irregular if not disturbing activity on my part.
The relative silence breaks.
"Dammit, where is it?" I hear. To my horror, it is my own voice.
I felt like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" and this was my "Oh, Fudge" moment. There was no taking it back.
Instincts immediately kicked in. Rather than flee, my reaction was to fight. Without any thought to context or appropriateness, I began to try to explain my comment to the twenty or so men who may or may not have heard me.
"I can't find it." I said, nervously chuckling and swiveling my head.
The counter punches were swift and unflinching.
"Tough break, pal,"
"Curse of the Irish."
"Imagine how difficult it is for her."
I try to cough out a laugh, but my mouth has gone dry.
"No, no. I can't find the hole." I'm not helping myself. Again, I'm struck multiple times.
"If you do, you've gone too far."
"Maybe a stall would be more appropriate."
"I'm just going to pee in the sink." I'm not sure this one was specifically directed to me.
No, no, I think. This is all a misunderstanding and I'm certain I can explain my innocence if they give me the chance. But my mind is spinning too fast.
"I mean, the..." I try frantically to gesticulate the hole that is supposed to be in my boxers with my free hand. I look like a deaf pervert signing dirty talk.
"I mean..." I'm yelling at this point. "The...the...pee hole!"
The alternative expressions of bemusement and horror on the faces around me begin to change to something resembling pity. I think I hear a collective sigh of "Oh" drift up from behind me. By the sheer grace of God, I have stumbled into a way out of this mess which I gladly accept.
I'll trade pervert for retard any day of the week.
Comments
I refuse to believe this story is true. Just...NO WAY!!!
You honestly should get this published somewhere. This is priceless!
Posted by: nicole | May 15, 2006 10:04 PM
Lesson learned, I guess. When in doubt, say nothing....(duly noted that this is likely the ONLY advantage women have in the john).
Posted by: buckkel | May 16, 2006 07:47 AM
NIC: I've got the therapy bill to prove it. Thanks for the compliment.
KEL: Don't forget about the nice couches. Ladies rooms always have nice couches, so you got that going for you.
Posted by: Crunchy BC | May 17, 2006 06:52 AM
That was one of the funniest posts I've read this year. I'd give it 5 stars if I were reviewing it.
I've been down that road, so I know exactly your frustration!
Posted by: Martini | May 19, 2006 03:46 PM