Some battles, we lose. (A dramatic account of not-so-dramatic occurences)
There were several reasons why I was kicked about working at the DR site this week. The idea is that if something terrible happens and swallows your actual workplace whole, and yet mysteriously, you’re still alive (maybe because such terrible things happen on weekends, I don’t know) then this is the makeshift office space to be used for recovering. I don’t terribly mind this.
For one, it is much nearer to my place than my usual workplace.
For two, that IMF shitfest still continues to torment innocent people like me by changing my bus’ routes and cordonning off huge expanses of walking space, stationing strange looking soldiers in navy blue fatigues and Indiana Jones style khaki hats (why?) and scary guns, thereby forcing me to walk in the pouring rain in my leather shoes on rugged, unsheltered pavements where I inevitably trip in front of that one cop who stares at me every morning. In a nutshell, it’s nice to know I don’t have to deal with that one more week.
But here I am… out of the icebox and into the meatfreezer.
This building is cold. Cold as your estranged ex-lover, cold as the professor who flunks you in the project because he hates your guts, cold as the aunt who despises you and loves your brother. Ladies and gentlemen I cannot even begin to tell you how cold this building is. But I’ll try. Imagine that you had a cold shower and the only thing you had to dry yourself with is a smelly, cold wet woolen rug and you had nothing to wear because someone locked your wardrobe so you had to continue wearing that wet woolen rug and the you can’t turn the airconditioning in your bedroom off because the remote broke. Imagine being stuck in your bedroom like that for about 10 hours. Okay does that work? this is seven hundred and ninety-nine thousand times worse.
Yesterday I came to office in a full-sleeve shirt, skirt and pumps. I was also armed with my mulberry coloured sweater. I was shivering and chattering in the office, running away intermittently to the toilet just to stick my ghostly white hands under the hand dryer. I covered my cold legs with a friend’s woolen sweater but there was no hope. My neck was like a dead bird’s and I could feel my throat going sore. In a moment of sheer disgust, I said to my manager in severe indignation, “Don’t be surprised if I set something on fire just to stay warm”
When I got back home, I was still shivering. There was not one warm bone in my body and I was pretty certain there was no blood flow in my legs. I knew I had to fight back.
I went down to the gym to jog furiously hoping that the profuse sweating would bring back the warmth into my frozen soul. It helped immensely. And I felt encouraged.
Unfortunately, I had lost my appetite and had a very sparse dinner. I somehow mustered up the strength to stand under the boiling hot shower, after which I crashed into bed. Sans airconditioning. I was still cold under my quilts.
This morning, I went prepared. At least I tried.
Teeshirt. Jeans. Knee-length socks. Knee-length Boots. Full-sleeve woollen turtleneck sweater. (Did I mention my habitation is at zero latitude, also known as the scorching equator?)
I walked into the office, guns blazing. Straight into the pantry, I marched and made myself a boiling hot cup of coffee. Then I ran out the door and bought myself a baguette with honeybaked ham and eggs and another hot tea as well. I was determined and convinced…the combination of excellent clothing and heat-intense fatty food was bound to keep me warm. The girl-scout in me was determined to kick the simulated winter’s ass.
But some battles we lose. The throat just got really hoarse and the nose turned runny. The appetite was murdered by the cold and everything tasted like cardboard. The coffee and the tea were left half-finished. The less-than-half-eaten-baguette was tossed unceremoniously into the dustbin. And the tissues provided were all drenched in germ-infested fluids. And they continue to be.
Some battles you know you’ll lose, especially when in your proud moment of guts and glory on that stupid gym machine, your ipod goes flying down *thud* to the floor and the clickwheel stops working and your heart just breaks into a thousand little pieces because it’s the prettiest ipod ever.
I broke my ipod, and I am cold. All I think of right now is baking my brown self in a bikini on the soft sands of a Thai beach. With a watermelon slushie in hand, a big straw hat and purple sunglasses no less. Suddenly I am not too kicked about a European holiday.
Some battles, we lose. The end.