This week: A submission!!!
From one of my many brothers....
For Michelle’s TMI Tuesday, to use how she would like...or not...if she would like.
It is completely up to her good judgment.
Setting the stage...
have all been in that place where we want to impress our peers. I suppose that matriculating an MBA program is no different. You go to class, and the desire is to speak and act professionally among professional people, so that you are esteemed by your colleagues and peers as well, professional.
So, imagine if you will, sitting in the break room, where only MBA students are allowed, discussing the great companies of the day, and generally showing off mental acuity and prowess to one another. Beyond the tall glass windows, a dark cold, and cloudy day sees the billowing snowflakes bouncing off the glass outside. Using this scene as a backdrop you will find a certain MBA candidate sitting comfortably in a soft chair.
Me. With pants on and fully intact.
Here is where the plot thickens.
I close my laptop, lean over to slide it into my backpack. Grab my bag in my right hand, and reach for my jacket in my left, stand up, and turn to my left, take a step and rrrrrrrrrip.
My left pant foreleg has caught onto a small protruding, and yet amazingly strong thin carpentry nail. A breeze of cool air flows up my leg. My left hand, with coat still firmly in hand instinctively moves to cover up the 12 inch gash in my left pantleg.
Wow, I look professional right about now.
in front of all these
But, I never let any of them see me sweat. I calmly fold the coat over my left forearm, and discreetly drape my jacket covering all the required bits, and stroll out of the “MBA Only” lounge. I swing my backpack up over my right shoulder, dive into my pocket to find my cell phone. Casually, I flip open to call my wife, and in a few short minutes of standing outside, discreetly away from any passerby’s, she collects me from the curbside.
If that were the end of the story, it would be enough, one might think.
You see, two weeks ago, while sitting comfortably in my cubicle chair at work.
With pants on, fully intact.
I spun quickly to the right, and stood up. This time, cargo pants. This time, just as professional, rrrrrrrip.
Twelve inch gash in my left pant foreleg. In all meaningful ways identical to the dreaded tear of ‘06.
Calmly, I stood up, walked directly towards the elevator, at a somewhat heightened pace. Casually, I called my lovely wife, explained the repeat of the ghastly ‘professional’ mishap.
Yes honey, again.
You can stop laughing now...
In a brief, and somewhat breezy wait outside, again, discretely away from any passerby’s, my wife came to the rescue, with a replacement set of pants.
As I cooly stroll back up to my desk, my boss noticing the subtle change in my apparral asked,
Weren’t you wearing different pants?
Who me? Noooooo....
I AM after all, professional.