There is no helpful style tidbit or slice of womanly wisdom embedded in this post. I just had to share.
I work on the fifth floor of a swanky, modern office building on the U of M campus that sits smack dab in the middle of a cluster of athletics facilities. So, you know, I see my fair share of fiddle-fit college boys trotting around during my lunchtime walks. But they generally keep it outside.
As I mentioned earlier this week, much to your chagrin, I am considerably fuzzier than I generally prefer to be. Around 5:15 p.m. today, I had just changed into my biking clothes in the office restroom – a prehistoric Old Navy tank, clumsily cuffed nylon workout pants, and Puma flats – and was staring at myself in the warped, reflective elevator exteriors, marveling at my own frump. My elevator arrived, and the doors parted to reveal three 19-year-old dudes laughing about how they’d hit the wrong floor. Two of the three were shirtless and drenched in sweat, looking for all the world like living, breathing Abercrombie ads. I shit you not.
I made a feeble attempt to avoid that elevator via stalling and fidgeting, but they looked at me expectantly. So I got on and proceeded to studiously ignore them all.
That lasted at least 5 seconds before the hottest of the three said, “Hi.” Just as I was hoping he would NOT DO.
“Hi,” I replied. And then, in my most alarmingly Napoleon-Dynamite-esque tones, “WHY ARE YOU GUYS NAKED?!??”
Yes. I really said that. Just as they were hoping I WOULD DO.
“Well, it’s hot outside,” Gorgeous Shirtless 19-year-old Number One replied.
“We just came in to use the bathroom, ” Gorgeous Shirtless 19-year-old Number Two explained.
The shirted one remained silent.
“On the fifth floor?” I asked, incredulous.
They muttered something about being on their way down from the SIXTH floor, which did not jive with the whole it’s-hot-outside-so-we-came-into-your-swanky-building-for-a-pee tale. But by this time, mortification at my own outburst had set in. As had awareness of my supremely hairy legs, which I had expected absolutely no one to see except the drivers that whizzed by me on University Avenue. So I questioned the dudes no further.
The doors opened and I scampered out into the lobby. And as I made my way outside to fumble with my bike lock, I found myself giggling. Sure, the sight of these fine, young, half-naked things had caused me to become a jittery, 4th grade version of myself. Sure, their mere presence had rendered me inarticulate
. And sure, I’d acted like an utter dork. But their dorkdom rivaled my own! What a bizarre-ass story they had laid on me. What was really going on? Were they just riding around in the elevators waiting for women to get on who might question their partial nudity? Were they, as Husband Mike suggested, rehearsing for an Axe Body Spray commercial? WTF?!?
So. ¿Quién es más dorky?
It’s a tough call, no?
And don’t worry. I’m still giggling about the whole thing.