Saturday, April 29, 2006

No, I don't want to smell your armpit. Thanks.

I am taking a class this weekend.

It is being held in a suburban hotel conference room, the kind with the movable walls, booby chandeliers, and chlorine-scented hallways.

Our room has two columns of narrow tables, 5 tables in a column, four people at a table.

So it's a bit snug.

Sitting to the left of me today, I enjoyed the company of a weirdo named "Glenn".

"Glenn" is the Procurement Officer in Charge of Federal Contract Purchasing - or something, for a small town. He takes his job very seriously and it is highly likely that every single pencil on his desk is sharpened to a very very fine sharp point.

I thought he would be the kind of person who would be cognizant of his personal space boundaries.

But he was not.

To refill his water glass, he stood up and reached for the pitcher by streching his arm over my head.

Which resulted in the extraordinarily awkward movement of having my head getting bumped into his armpit.


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