I got to work bright and early this morning. I went to my brazing stand and began setting up my work for the day. That's when I saw it: a small scrap of paper under the chunk of steel I use for a paperweight. Thinking it was jut trash, I started to toss it. When I picked it up, though, I noticed that it had been carefully folded, and set just under the edge of my paperweight as if it had been put there on purpose.
Curious, I unfolded it and on said paper was a phone number and a name. Oh, I knew right away it wasn't intended for me. How do I know?
1) I don't know anyone named Terrance.
2) I'm not the kind of woman for whom men leave phone numbers under paperweights
3) Anyone who knows me knows it's a waste of time giving me a phone number, because I will never, ever call it. I don't call people I like; I'm certainly not going to call someone I don't even know.
I thought it must have been intended for the girl who brazes on my stand on second shift and she just didn't see it, so I put the paper into my pocket intending to put it back where I'd found it at the end of the day. And it was a long, hot, frustrating, tiring day. Then I had to go to the post office.
A phone number and the post office -- two things I dread the most in the same day. The only way the day could have gotten any worse is if I'd had to go to the dentist, too.
I'm not quite sure why I dread the post office so much. I think maybe it's that they bombard you with questions any time you need to mail something. How do you want to send it? How soon do you want it to get there? What's in it? Do you want insurance? Stamps? Passport?
Noooooo, it's a baby dress. I want to mail the baby dress. Just let me mail the baby dress. I don't want stamps. I don't want a passport. I just want to mail the baby dress!
Despite feeling like a witness in a trial for murder, I persevered and got the baby dress mailed without too much trauma and headed home. I was emptying my pockets before changing out of my work clothes when I discovered that the aforementioned piece of paper was still in my aforementioned pocket. Poor Terrance's message never got delivered.
If anyone out there knows Terrance who works at ADP --presumably on 2nd shift-- apologize to him on my behalf. You also might want to mention that it would probably be better for him to just talk to the person to whom he wants to give his phone number face to face. That way, it won't mistakenly end up in the hands of a crazy, telephonophobic, white lady...
who might just publish it to the entire internet.
Take that, Terrance!