"You have to hear this one Patton Oswalt bit," Aaron* said,
grinning excitedly from across our cubicle. "It's hilarious! He's talking about a girl he slept with and
going to get the morning after pill..."
Aaron and I have shared cube space almost the entirety of his seven months
at our company. In that time, we've
become fast friends, bonding over our love of standup comedy and just generally
ridiculing the ridiculous. He's a
standup guy (pun intended): ambitious, witty, enthusiastic, encouraging,
deep-voiced and football-player-muscled.
All in all, a classic hero. He
even rescued me during Raleigh's horrendous Snowmaggedon a few months earlier
by driving me home in his huge SUV. I owe him several home-cooked meals at this
point.
"I was thinking about it last night; you have to listen to
it!" he continued. I raised my eyebrows.
He was already giggling.
"No, no, seriously! I know it
sounds bad, but it's so funny. He's telling this story, right, and then this
guy in the crowd heckles him, and he just GOES OFF on him. Oh my god, it's amazing. He just YELLS at him for like ten straight
minutes. He's like, 'YOU
DOUCHENOZZLE!'...wait, I can't do it, I'm gonna ruin it. You just have to hear it...oh my god..."
He put his head down on the desk, shoulders shaking. His mirth was
contagious; I couldn't help but grin too.
A few hours later, we were headed to the Durham Bulls Ballpark. Our company had paid for us all to go to a
game as a team-building exercise, providing food and a half day to sit in the
sun. Since we live close to each other
and have to drive the same way going home, Aaron and I carpooled in my
Focus. I plugged my iPhone in and turned
to Patton Oswalt station on Pandora, and wouldn't you know it, right as we
approached the exit, the very bit he was talking about came on. He's right - it's hilarious. Soon we were both helpless with laughter, and
the traffic jam we got stuck in coming off the exit didn't seem nearly as bad.
The ballpark was packed yesterday, almost unbelievably so. We spent an hour circling the area around it,
trying in vain to get into several parking decks only to be told they were full
up as we approached in a long line of equally frustrated drivers. At long last, we found a parking deck four
blocks away from the ballpark with some open spaces.
Now, here's the thing: I'm 4'10". My shoe closet is full of 4-inch
heels.
I've run down Broadway in stiletto mary-janes. I've clipped along Oxford
Street in heeled boots. But yesterday, as I was hiking the four blocks from the
parking deck toward the ballpark with Aaron, the heel on my 4" cork wedge
sandal ripped in half.
We made it there, but unbeknownst to me, the front part of my shoe was hanging on by a thread - literally. Many flights of stairs, bleachers, and a long saunter (well, toddle, on my part) around the arena looking at souvenirs didn't help. By the end of the afternoon, I collapsed at a nearby picnic table with my coworkers/girlfriends, my left sandal holding itself together for dear life.
And that was only the beginning.
*Not his real name. It rhymes, though.
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