• Itch

    ANTS

     

     

    Today I sat in a conference room around a long table with twenty other people.  We were in training for a new piece of corporate software.  The room was unpleasantly warm despite the cool air hissing from an air conditioning vent in the ceiling.  I looked around the room and saw a lot of glazed eyes and chins resting on hands.

    “And now we’ll move on to an example,” the instructor said, flipping to the next page in his presentation.  I hid a small yawn behind one hand and moved the cursor, waking my computer.

    I glanced at the clock.  10:47am.  Almost lunch time.

    I brightened, wondering what we were having.  Maybe they’ll do Greek again.  I hoped they hadn’t ordered sandwiches from the cafeteria downstairs.  I hate when the company goes cheap and orders cafeter – damn it, my boob itches.

    I moved to scratch the itch and froze, my hand hanging stupidly in the air.

    What am I doing?

    I can’t scratch myself here.

    Bits of industry conversation floated to my ears. “Maybe that didn’t get cycled back…”

    “Were all permutations sent in?”

    Summoning every ounce of will power, I ignored the fire ants that had suddenly taken up residence in my bra and put my hand back down.  I glanced at the people across the table.  Two men leaned over a laptop engrossed with the lesson.  A blonde woman tapped a text message on her iPhone.

    Would they notice if I scratched?  The itch intensified, the fire ants angry now.  I gritted my teeth and tried to scratch covertly with the side of my arm.  No good.

    Across the table, a man leaned back and pushed a hand into his crotch, adjusting himself.   I glared at him enviously.  Bastard.

    Just then, the instructor walked by.  He saw I was several steps behind in the example.  He leaned over my shoulder.  “Click here,” he said, pointing at the screen.

    I’ve never been much good at prayer, but this seemed a good time to start.

    God, please, I know we don’t chat much, and I’m really sorry for that, but right now I have to move my hand.  Please lend me your strength and guide it to the mouse and not to my flaming boob.  Amen.

    I clicked the mouse.

    The instructor asked, “Got it?” He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

    “Mm-hmm,” I said, pressing my lips together in what I hoped passed as a smile.  I held my hands firmly against the arms of the chair.

    Satisfied, the instructor nodded and moved on to the next student.  I sighed in relief.

    I began planning a retreat to the bathroom when the itch disappeared.  I sat still for a long moment, not daring to hope.  But it was gone, popped like a soap bubble.

    That was close.

     

4 Responsesso far.

  1. Catherine Murphy says:

    Another laugh time from you! Oh how I need this. Thank you again and again. the pictures in my mind are hysterical. Oh, send me another one!

  2. Leslee says:

    Great entertainment on this rather boring Saturday morn!! Thank you ” Oh Master of the Words” Love the pray, I just know God listened to that! LOL

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