Shirts You Shouldn't Wear at Work
You know when you have one of those “I’m smarter than this” moments? The ones where, when you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror or a window, you think to yourself, “I probably shouldn't admit this to my mom…” (But of course, you always do.) Well, I had one of those moments a few weeks ago. At work. Go figure. It was the Friday, December 21st and I was enjoying the final moments before the adult version of “Christmas break” began and I decided to stick around to work out at our company gym. Most of my co-workers who use the gym work out in the morning or at lunch so I've been fortunate enough to literally never share the space with anyone. When I stay after hours to work out about 75% I’m the last person in the office, but on Fridays, I’m always the last one. Some of my co-workers had started sipping on Miller Lite around 3:30PM that day so I figured by the time I hopped off the treadmill around 6-6:30PM I’d be the lone duck responsible for turning off the lights. Keyword: thought.
Since no one was around instead of using my headphones I decided I’d just jam to Nicki Minaj’s Pandora station via my iPhone speakers while I worked on my fitness. Post-workout I changed my clothes to the sweet melodies of R. Kelly’s “Ignition” and by the time I was putting my coat on to exit the locker room a G-Unit favorite pleasantly surprised my earbuds. I was momentarily enjoying what I’ve heard other’s refer to as a “runners high” – although I think mine was 99% 50-Cent inspired and only minimally impacted by my leisure jog – until I walked out those doors and back into my office and was met with a surprise. There were around 35 people, all wearing plaid, lining the circumference of our kitchen. Thankfully my catlike reflects saved me from the heinous chorus that was about to burst from Curtis Jackson’s mouth to interrupt this group that had appeared from thin air and appeared to be praying.
The fact that the Plaid Prayers (as I’ve decided to call them) may have heard my tunes was relatively inconsequential compared to the fact that as I began to walk closer I had a moment-too-late realization that the must-be-a-co-workers-church-group might realize that the t-shirt I was wearing was one of those “only wear to bed... in your own home” types. Oops. It was a former Spartan Ski Club shirt which happened to assert: “Just because I’ll sleep with you doesn't mean I’ll ski with you.” (It’s amazing how things that sound so funny at 19 will give you hives when walking past church-goers days before Christmas in your mid-twenties.) Head down, I started to float on past the group, hoping they actually had permission to be there, but not willing to actually ask for fear of getting stuck in an awkward conversation in which I’d have to stand awkwardly with my arms criss-crossed all unnecessarily aggressive. Scoot, scoot, scoot – halt. Who was it that stopped right in front of me? Why my YOUTH PASTOR of course. These weren’t just ANY Plaid Prayers, these were MY people. This was the staff Christmas party of my family’s church. And there I was. Catching a glimpse in the window, avoiding eye contact while thinking to myself, “I probably shouldn't tell my mom about this…”
But of course, I did. And god knows why, but I wore that shirt again this week and as I glanced in the mirror lifting my 10lb weights I wondered, will I ever be smarter than this?
