I think every office across America has that one room which is always twice as cold as any other room in the building. In our building, that room is my office. So here I sit, middle of July, wearing a jacket and rubbing my hands together so as not to lose feeling in the tips of my fingers.
I am reminded of a particularly cold day a few years ago, back in my old office. It was a windy November morning (or maybe December), and having just biked through a light drizzle I arrived at work absolutely freezing. Fortunately, back in those days I kept a spare change of clothes in the office for just this occasion. I changed into a clean, dry pair of jeans and threw on some new socks, but couldn't find a shirt. I did, however, have my nice warm heavy sweater draped across the desk, so I stripped out of my wet one and just threw on the sweater. I then killed the A/C to get things a little toasty and watched the grey morning pass by outside.
Several hours later a young lady walks in wearing a tight white shirt and a cute little pink vest. She's clutching her arms to her chest and shivering and, of course, is here to take a drug test.
The collection passes uneventfully, but just as I'm getting everything packed and sealed she points out, "You know, I can tell you aren't wearing a shirt under your sweater."
"That's okay," I reply, "I can tell you aren't wearing a bra under your shirt."
She turns beet red and leaves as swiftly as possible.
I guess nobody ever taught her it was rude to point.
I am reminded of a particularly cold day a few years ago, back in my old office. It was a windy November morning (or maybe December), and having just biked through a light drizzle I arrived at work absolutely freezing. Fortunately, back in those days I kept a spare change of clothes in the office for just this occasion. I changed into a clean, dry pair of jeans and threw on some new socks, but couldn't find a shirt. I did, however, have my nice warm heavy sweater draped across the desk, so I stripped out of my wet one and just threw on the sweater. I then killed the A/C to get things a little toasty and watched the grey morning pass by outside.
Several hours later a young lady walks in wearing a tight white shirt and a cute little pink vest. She's clutching her arms to her chest and shivering and, of course, is here to take a drug test.
The collection passes uneventfully, but just as I'm getting everything packed and sealed she points out, "You know, I can tell you aren't wearing a shirt under your sweater."
"That's okay," I reply, "I can tell you aren't wearing a bra under your shirt."
She turns beet red and leaves as swiftly as possible.
I guess nobody ever taught her it was rude to point.
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