chivalry

Today I am being paid to sit at a desk, eat Hershey's Kisses, and daydream about the fabulous young gentleman I got to know over the weekend. I'm not complaining, I could do this all day. Of course, every once in awhile I do have to answer the phone in a show of solidarity for those who actually are working, which I do in a dazed, chocolatey voice.

I also signed some papers. It's a very strange thing; I get these papers from the woman in charge of Documents. On company letterhead they say, "We certify that these documants are true and exact copies of the originals." Then there is a line I need to sign. This is all fine and dandy, well and good. I really don't have anything better to do than to sign these papers. But I do wonder about one thing. What does she use them for? I am certainly not making any copies for her. Perhaps she does her own copying and then simply inserts the signed document, but if that's the case then why must they bear my signature? Wouldn't hers be just as good or - dare I say - better? Nevertheless, there I sat, signing away...I don't ask too many questions.

After an entire morning of such leisure, I noticed that a coworker was leaving to pick up her take-out lunch from Olive Garden. In my everlasting quest to find a way out of my cage and still get paid (but under the ruse that the most productive thing I could do at this point was to enable her continued behind-the-desk production), I offered to go instead.

I got a little lost on the way, but didn't mind as I was listening to some good DJ Shadow (and, may I remind you, still getting paid). I got unlost fairly quickly and made my way into the Olive Garden. This took some patience because I got stuck right outside the door behind an ancient man moving at the speed of ten tiny steps an hour. On the upside, the thoughtful Olive Garden staff members were there holding the doors for him, and since I was right behind they held them open for me too. Yes, doors - plural. This was no single threshold, but a vestibuled multi-entrance entryway. I patiently baby-stepped behind this man for several minutes, but as soon as we were in I shot around him like an Olypmic sprinter out of the blocks, lunging for the finish line - er, reception counter.

I was greeted begrudginly by the oh-so-friendly hostess, who must have seen that the old man actually did enter before me because she kept looking at him hobbling his way toward her, clearly thinking that he should be helped first. Unruffled, I informed her of my mission, "Hi. I'm here to pick up a to-go order."

"Oh. They'll help you over at the bar."

She began to help the old man and the line of customers that had accumulated behind him. I looked at the bar. Not only were there zero patrons sitting at the bar, there was no waitstaff tending to it. I raised my eyebrows but said nothing as I turned and marched past the leagues of lunching businesskind. I approached the bar and stood, looking for any soul who might care that I was standing there. No bartender, no server, no cook took notice (much less pity) on my attention seeking gaze, so there I stood. Looking. Waiting. Trying to appear friendly so as not to scare off any would-be Help. Still nothing.

I looked back at the hostess. By now she had seated the man as well as the queue that had formed behind him. I marched back over to her.

"Hi," I smiled. "I'm here picking up a to-go order and, well, I waited at the bar and no one came to help me."

"Oh...sorry," she said in a not very apologetic tone. "I'll find someone." In fact, she sounded a bit annoyed that I needed more help than she had initially given.

She ventured into the kitchen as I strolled back to the bar. We may not have had the best repoire, but by way of her Hostess Magic my food did appear. I paid and left with two bags full of food.

I drove back to the office, grabbed a bag in each hand and headed across the parking lot. I was just about to put one bag into the other hand so that I could open the door when I realized that the man also approaching the door was going to open it for me. I don't know how you know when someone is going to do this for you, it is just womanly instinct. And he did.

"Thank you," I said on my way through, hurrying so that I could catch the elevator that had just arrived on the first floor. I pressed 8 as the man also climbed aboard, pressing 4. I stepped back and as the elevator doors slid to a close my nose began to itch. We got to the fourth floor I realized that I had refrained from transferring one of the bags to the other arm in order to have a free hand with which to scratch, for if I had done that it would have shown that I had in fact been capable of opening the door on my own. In other words, if I had done that there may be one less chivalrous man in this city, nation, world, and as every woman knows we need all the gentleman we can get.

At long last he deboarded and the doors closed once again. I scratched my nose, rode up to the eighth floor and entered the office with a flourish, feeling useful, kind, generous, and very corporate feminine, ready for my afternoon of answering, autographing, and Kisses both real and imaginary.