The smart sister and I work together at an insurance company. Wait. Not actually together…just in the same building.
Her 10 years, and me 6. Her 2nd floor, and me third. Her insurance-related stuff, and me not.
We both know quite a few people there. And I had not realized that since we don’t really look alike and we don’t have the same last name but yet we’re around each other quite a bit…there are a few who don’t know WE ARE SISTERS.
And not girlfriends. Ain’t that a gut-buster?
Yeah. Maybe for your dating life. Not mine.
Anyway, today I’m at my desk doing my best to appear miserably swamped because the boss won’t stay in his damn office, and I get a text. It’s from her.
Her: Come to the personal bathroom on your floor. I’m sick.
Are you kidding me???
This so-called “personal bathroom” isn’t really personal. It’s just only one of maybe two private, highly sought after restrooms. Not a bunch of stalls. And it’s kinda hidden at that. Not too many know about it. It’s nice to have a cramp or two and go in there without having to listen to phone conversations or smell “perfumes”…of any kind.
The only way you can tell it’s occupied is by the light strip under the door as you approach it. I get quite irritated when I see that light strip and I’m on this side of that big, wooden barrier. For some reason, I have gotten very ownershippy with it. I am seriously considering placing my nameplate there.
I get close to the door and:
Me: U in there?
Me: I’m at the door!!!!!
I ain’t about to knock or jiggle that knob. Last thing I want now is to see someone else in my restroom.
Door flies open, she pulls me in, then slams the door shut. Locked.
Two sisters standing basically nose-to-nose. However, one of us is pretty green.
Me: Your ass better be really sick!! This is gonna look so gay if anyone sees us in here!
(Don’t get on me about a gay comment. One of my very best friends is gay. Some (more like ‘most’) of the best people in my life are gay. Sorry straight people, but the truth hurts…you need to step it up.)
Isn’t that some sisterly love? She’s sick and I’m concerned about my reputation. Sounds about par.
We decide (quietly) that her ass needs to go. Home. Like, 10 minutes ago.
I make her wait while I leave my restroom first. Gotta make sure the coast is clear. And the elevators. And the conference rooms. And basically, the entire third floor.
We make it to the garage and into the car. Sister is looking green. I’m talking shag-carpet-from-the-70’s-green. I drive her home, pee, then head back to the office.
I continue on with my day of dropping pretty much an entire salad in my lap and almost tipping my chair because I feel it’s safer and easier to reach than roll. Knocked out a happy hour where I attempted to sound British (not really…but I wanted to) and made it home by 8:00 p.m.
And to think, there are days I take Xanax.