My day starts when I refuse to take off my polo gloves to turn off the alarm. Eventually my wife wakes up and turns off the alarm with my face. Good morning, I say to the world.
I run a brush through my hair and wax my moustache. Why would I take a shower? My man stink is part of what identifies me to my team mates on the court. I think about wearing an ironic tee shirt to work, but remember the last conversation I had with HR about it, so I put on a button down.
For about fifteen minutes, I consider riding my polo bike to work. How cool would that be? I could even bring my mallet and practice ball control on the way–and then people would see me roll up and they’d all wonder how I could be any more cool, but then they’d see the facecage on my helmet and they’d know…they’d know.
However, I remember that I work about 35 miles from where I live, and that I have little stubby legs. I concede that riding to work would take me until Saturday. Patting my polo bike on her saddle, I tell her that maybe next time I’ll ride her to work. We both know it’s a horrible lie.
A BMW cuts me off about halfway to work, and try to figure out a way to wheeldick the driver. That train of thought somehow lasts all the way to the parking lot at work. I get out of the car, pick up my mallet from the back seat, put it back down, pick it up again, and then satisfy my urges by swinging it into the tire of the car next to mine a few times.
I don’t notice the person who owns that car is still sitting in it until she starts shouting at me. I tell her the pressure in her tire is fine, and that there’s no need to thank me. I don’t think she’s a manager.
The first person I see in the office is an intern. I check him into the snack table and declare body on body is perfectly legal. He tries to say something, so I check him into the snack table again.
I open the refrigerator in the break room, and find that my stash of Natty Bo is gone. I close the fridge to discover a new reminder that alcoholic beverages are not permitted at the workplace. I guess there will be no pre-gaming today. However, they haven’t found the whiskey in my desk drawer.
Oh. Well I guess they have.
My boss asks me to step into his office for our mid-day meeting, and then tells me we need to get a project done by the end of the week. While he’s talking, I draw a diagram of how to disrupt a play from mid-court. He looks at my drawing and I tell him I’m “mind mapping.” It looks like he believes me, but to make sure I say three more corporate buzz words, and that seems to do the trick. When I leave his office I remind him that it’s bike polo day. He still doesn’t know what that means.
In between acting like I’m doing work and checking LoBP, I glance at the numbers we have saying “in” on Facebook. I count that we have six, but a few minutes later count that we have 5. I panic. My hands begin sweating. I shout at someone who walks by and tells me good afternoon. I count again and we have eight people.
“Okay,” I type on the Facebook page, “NO MORE PEOPLE CAN COME.”
A few minutes later I check again just to make sure we do have six.
At 2:45 I begin packing up my things. One of my co-workers starts telling me about how his dog recently learned the command to roll over, so I tell him how I recently learned how to make accurate over-the-bar shots. We try to out-do each other’s stories until I realize I’m competing with a dog, and turn back to my desk.
It’s 3pm. I stand up, shout “three two one” and run for the door. I finish off the last of the gin I picked up during lunch and throw the bottle at the recycling container on my way towards the front door. It goes in with a satisfying break of glass. I shout “count it!” and don’t stop running until I’m in my car.
Then it’s Vampire Weekend blaring at full volume until I get home.