The second I smashed my finger in a bathroom door at work yesterday, I knew it wasn't going to be any ordinary Monday.
Well, that's not quite true. The second I smashed my finger in the door, I probably thought some exclamation of pain, such as "Yowch!" or "Ow!" or "Papapishu!" I didn't know it wasn't going to be any ordinary Monday until a few seconds after the incident occurred and the initial pain subsided.
I was not to be disappointed.
First, I had the thrill of riding around in the back of a golf cart from the central building at Wyview to the apartment building we were cleaning. Since I was the second-to-last person to hop in, I had the premium opportunity to choose my seat: on top of a telephone, conveniently padded with a questionable-looking scrap of cloth that barely passed as a sweatshirt, or on top of utensils and other sharp, pointy objects.
I chose the telephone.
Curled up in the back of the golf cart, twisted like a pretzel, in a space that even Genie would've found cramped, I clung to the side of the cart and hoped that we wouldn't catch air when we flew over the speed bumps. What a rush.
Then, at my second job at the HFAC, I was given a special assignment to clean all of the drinking fountains before performing my usual duties. Now, this may not seem very exciting to the average Joe, but when you consider my daily tasks (Check bathrooms. Vacuum. Clean glass doors. Dust mop. Lather, rinse, repeat for four hours), it was almost refreshing to clean drinking fountains for a change. Almost.
For FHE last night, we played inner tube water polo. Granted, I was not exactly feeling very keen on it at the beginning ("don't boys know that girls need more than 15 minutes notice if they're going to have to shave before an activity?"), but it was a lot more fun than anticipated. It was a lot more tiring than anticipated, as well. As such, when my roommate Karlie and I -- the only two girls who participated -- weren't busy distracting the men with our feminine charm, splashing around and making waves, and cleverly throwing the ball toward invisible targets nowhere near the goal or where any other teammates were, we were content to just hang onto our inner tubes, float around, and breathe much more heavily than is socially acceptable.
(Okay, I have to give Karlie some props. She was actually pretty good at making goals. I made a couple of goals, too, but I think that's because the goalie was starting to feel sorry for me or something.)
So there you have it.
(Insert snappy conclusion here.)
