Stuck
Tonight’s dinner is the official exchanging of portfolios of our organization, and I am about to be announced as the newest VP of Finance – first you get the money, then you get the power.
Everyone is dressed rather snappily, as if they’re going out for dinner and drinks. I’m wearing my vintage YSL safari jacket in black, black slacks and a white t-shirt that cost less than 10 bucks. High and low style.
When it’s time for the presentations, everyone sits up and takes notice of what is about to be said. The President and VP say a few words and exchange their portfolios with the incoming members.
It’s time for my portfolio. Introductions are said and done and my name is revealed as the new money manager.
With a smile on my face, I pull back my chair and stand. As I take a few strides towards the top of the table, it feels like someone is holding me back. Looking around, I see that everyone is sitting and applauding.
What the fuck?
When I look down, I see my right pantleg is stuck to the chair and I have been dragging the chair with me, every second step – approximately halfway to the head of the table.
“Steven, your pantleg is stuck to the chair,” says my date, G.
Really? No way! You think?
“I know that,” I say, trying not to turn red of embarrassment. “Help me.”
She gets up from her chair and I kneel down to see if the fabric was caught between something, or if maybe a nail is pulling on the pantleg. It’s neither. It’s a honkin’ piece of old Hubba Bubba gum.
We both try to pry the fabric away from the gum, and the result is a long series of pink threads. By now, we have an audience and everyone is looking over the table to get a better view of what the fuck is going on.
We do the best we can to remove a chunk off the fabric, but the result is a large, pink mark on the back of my right pantleg.
Gaining some composure, I stand up straight, walk to the front - without a chair in tow - and pick up my portfolio with a smile.
“What was that?” asks the President.
“Oh that? Nothing.” I brush her off and swiftly snap up the portfolio.
The rest of the night is spent with my back against the wall, hoping no one will ask about the big pink spot on my black slacks. If they do, I'll lie like a seasoned politician.
Everyone is dressed rather snappily, as if they’re going out for dinner and drinks. I’m wearing my vintage YSL safari jacket in black, black slacks and a white t-shirt that cost less than 10 bucks. High and low style.
When it’s time for the presentations, everyone sits up and takes notice of what is about to be said. The President and VP say a few words and exchange their portfolios with the incoming members.
It’s time for my portfolio. Introductions are said and done and my name is revealed as the new money manager.
With a smile on my face, I pull back my chair and stand. As I take a few strides towards the top of the table, it feels like someone is holding me back. Looking around, I see that everyone is sitting and applauding.
What the fuck?
When I look down, I see my right pantleg is stuck to the chair and I have been dragging the chair with me, every second step – approximately halfway to the head of the table.
“Steven, your pantleg is stuck to the chair,” says my date, G.
Really? No way! You think?
“I know that,” I say, trying not to turn red of embarrassment. “Help me.”
She gets up from her chair and I kneel down to see if the fabric was caught between something, or if maybe a nail is pulling on the pantleg. It’s neither. It’s a honkin’ piece of old Hubba Bubba gum.
We both try to pry the fabric away from the gum, and the result is a long series of pink threads. By now, we have an audience and everyone is looking over the table to get a better view of what the fuck is going on.
We do the best we can to remove a chunk off the fabric, but the result is a large, pink mark on the back of my right pantleg.
Gaining some composure, I stand up straight, walk to the front - without a chair in tow - and pick up my portfolio with a smile.
“What was that?” asks the President.
“Oh that? Nothing.” I brush her off and swiftly snap up the portfolio.
The rest of the night is spent with my back against the wall, hoping no one will ask about the big pink spot on my black slacks. If they do, I'll lie like a seasoned politician.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
5 Comments:
I was wondering where I left that piece of gum ...
It's how you handle the sticky situations that show what kind of man you are. You handled that sticky situation very well!
Six: You want it back?
R.J.: I had the choice of removing it, or walking around with a chair all night long (not very practical).
Are you asking if I want something sticky from your pants? What kind of boy do you think I am?
(And yes, I do, please.)
Six: Uh, ew.
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