I’ve got two cans of soup in my desk drawer.
I told Sandra the other day that if she should ever be stranded in this skyscraper of a building, I’ll bet there’s all kinds of goodies in them thar offices.
She laughed because she thinks I’m kidding.
She’s cute like that.
Me? I’m not that kind of cute and I'm not kidding. I have two cans of the aforesaid soup, seven pairs of shoes (U.S. size 7 ½, aka “38” in Europe and “5” in the UK, if anyone wants to work out the ninja-style attack methods best suited for a small-ish heel), a stack of mismatched take-out napkins, a list of the new songs I need for my iPod, and a small hill of salt and pepper packets.
I also have a five-year I-can’t-believe-you-still-work-here glass sculpture that could double as a weapon.
Those who know me well know that I have a wide morbid streak. While others see bucolic, tree-lined country roads, for example, leading no doubt to a lovely encounter with a doe and her fawn, I see ancient and possibly angry trees leaning over paths that eventually lead one to a man who will tie you up and make stringy yet flavorful jerky out of you.
Or show you the way back in to town. Some days, I could go either way.
With that in mind, I have an emergency plan for my being stranded in an office tower. (Please note that this plan has me alone, for some reason. The plan that includes co-workers is pretty much the same, minus the screaming. I do have a reputation to uphold, you know.)
Day One starts with screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. Possibly some running up and down the halls. Then I take a nap, followed by looking for a breath mint. I check out all the fridges, carefully propping open the doors to the staircases that lead to other floors.
Then I take another nap.
Actually, that’s all I’ve got, the screaming and the napping. I have resolved, however, to lay in a couple more provisions, including a fresh change of undies and some tinted moisturizer.
I’m going to want to look refreshed for when they interview my thankful self on the Today Show.
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