We recently completed a three-month long “waist reduction challenge” at my work, designed to encourage employees to lose weight and get healthy for the new year. I didn’t participate, but I’m hearing some good results reported by several of my coworkers: one of them lost a pound while another gained only two.
I declined to be involved, primarily because I don’t care to have my weight reported on a bi-weekly basis to my supervisor. My upcoming performance review is going to be bad enough as it is without me having to hear “You’re not quite the team player we’d like you to be and, in addition, you’re a tubby.”
The whole office celebrated the end of the challenge period on Friday with Peppermint Patty brownies and big boxes of donuts.
I posted a piece a few months back about the variety of periodicals available on top of the commode tank in the men’s room at my office. (See https://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/people-who-need-people/ if you give a crap). These are generally a mix of popular culture magazines with a few higher-brow offerings like National Geographic and Mental Floss thrown in, fairly reflective of what you might expect in the white-collar workplace.
A week or so back, this bathroom was closed for cleaning, so I had to venture into the warehouse and use the blue-collar facilities. They’re equally clean, differing little from my usual haunt except for the curious framed sign next to the mirror warning associates not to put their feet on the wall. (Such a move would never even occur to me, so of course I had to try it. Wanted to get the full working-class experience during my visit).
The magazine I found in this part of the building was something called Dirt Sports. At first, I thought it was about Extreme Gardening, but then read the subhead describing it as “the voice of off-road motorsports.” Apparently, driving car-like vehicles through the woods and swamps can be an intentional thing, and it’s been picked up by rural folk after the high-society crowd failed to show interest in Ted Kennedy’s seminal rally at Chappaquiddick in 1969.
This holiday edition of the magazine featured a section on finding the “perfect holiday gift for your favorite member of the dirt sports nation.” I don’t have a favorite member of this group, unless you count the earthworm I declined to run over with my lawn mower last week, but I was still curious about some of the suggestions.
At the top of the line was the Dunkel Ultimate Luxury Hauler, a modified Ford F750 truck with a 300 HP diesel engine and a remote-controlled tilting flatbed that can haul 8,000 pounds of “off-road exotica.” It sleeps six, seats 10, and could probably crush dozens.
For the more economy-minded shopper, there was the Miller Arcstation, a blue metal worktable described as perfect for home welders.
This last offering actually holds some appeal to me. I’m not exactly handy around the house, so when I have to fix a loose hinge or replace a hard-to-reach light bulb, I’d like the work to stay done for a while, and welding just might be the option for me. Maybe it’d also work on this lose crown I’ve been meaning to see the dentist about.
Thank you, Dirt Sports magazine.
Ever since coming off the Ambien a few weeks back, I’m able to remember my dreams again. I had a curious one the other night I thought was worth recounting.
My mother and I were taking her car to a car wash, and planned to wait at a coffee shop while the work was done. We couldn’t find the cafe, so decided instead to go to Winn-Dixie, a now-bankrupt grocery store that used to be popular in the South. When we went for the car, the place had burned down, destroying our vehicle in the process. I don’t know how she planned to get home, but suddenly there was my father, atop a motorcycle and offering me a ride.
“But I don’t have a helmet,” I said. He pointed out that equally effective for safety purposes was wearing a plain, old-fashioned hand-saw on your head. You simply bend the metallic part to the curvature of your skull and tape it to your cheeks.
I wasn’t too sure about this but, since he was my father, I trusted him. We roared off down a beachfront road with me hanging on for dear life, the saw attached to my head.
A few nights later, I also had a dream about boils.
Someone in the lunchroom the other day said they’d finally learned how to get “screaming video” onto their desktop computer. Arrghh!
The temps I trained a few months ago are still working on third shift. However, there seems to be a topic I forgot to cover: I neglected to tell them they aren’t supposed to sleep at their desks.
I shudder to think of the other things I didn’t cover that they shouldn’t be doing — plotting insurrection against foreign governments, developing weapons of mass destruction (WMD), painting their nails, using distributed denial-of-service attacks to bring down Pentagon computers, etc.
I’ve gone back through all the training material I covered, as approved by our central office, and nowhere in the various processes and procedures so otherwise thoroughly documented could I find anything about staying awake while you’re collecting your paycheck. So since it wasn’t covered, the ladies are making up their own rules. One has even brought along a blanket and pillow, and seems thoroughly comfortable sprawled in the office chair in front of her terminal for several hours a night.
I think, though, we’re going to draw the line when she pulls out the sleep mask.
As I write this on a dreary Sunday afternoon, I’m starting to believe that the ancient Christians who made this day the weekly sabbath chose Sunday so they could fervently pray that the next day wouldn’t be Monday.
They’d spent their one day of rest celebrating the glory of God, praising his righteous Kingdom to come here on earth, and thanking Him for sending His only son Jesus Christ to be our Savior and Lord. And they probably threw in occasional requests that, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could tomorrow possibly dawn as Saturday or even Friday? “We’d even take Judgment Day rather than going back to the fields and the mines on a Monday,” I imagine some of them implored. And yet it never happened.
But these were people of supreme faith, so they’d try again every week, and now we have Sunday as our traditional day of prayer and worship.
Christ, I can’t believe it’s Monday already.