Flip flip flip flip flip...
Conceivably the sound would be insidious but it's not because I'm only aware of it on the periphery and then only during those brief hiccoughs between the roaring in my ears. And then I do hear it.
Flip flip flip flip flip...
The other day I knew exactly what was making this sound and I'm also aware of that on the periphery but I don't have time to think about it I only know this:
It is NOT something I'd be horrified over. It is not toilet paper on the bottom of my shoe and it is NOT the back of my skirt tucked into the back of my pantyhose and I am instantly transported back to 1992, Scottsdale, Arizona in December.
I work for a small software company that has either just been acquired or is on the brink of being swallowed whole by a monster of a baddish sort of extra-absorbent INsurance software conglomerate and in the mean time there can't be more than fifty of us in the building and it's a Mormon family owned and operated business and in retrospect I am the one odd sexpot in the building/company and I'm tolerated for probably all number of reasons but one of them is my mother and the other is that somebody, no doubt probably thinks I fit right in selling software to the Insurance sales people in the Northeast and they're probably right about that. Also, I am vaguely sweet and nice to work with. When I'm behaving myself. Most of the time, I think, I am behaving myself. Certainly when I am in the building I am behaving myself.
We are having a Christmas party and because it is 1992 and it is the age of drapy filmy skirts that fall nearly mid calf and are lined so as not to be sheer or indecent and are worn with a hip length jacket and the jacket can come off if you're informal and I know my jacket was off and I'm wandering around the building and I must have been for a good fifteen minutes at least.
I am mortified after the fact.
My inside sales associate, we all have one to ourselves at this point and she and I are as close as close can be because we need each other and she's very good at getting me proposals in record time sees me, grabs me by the arm and whispers...
Come with me, in here, right this second, no questions, lets go, and into an empty office we go, lights come on, door shuts and she says, look behind you.
The back of my skirt. The entire back of my skirt. Not just a little bit of it. All of it. All of the back of my skirt is tucked securely into the back of my pantyhose and I AM NOT WEARING A DAMN THING UNDER THOSE PANTYHOSE.
And because I am still in my late twenties and blessed with exceptional genes my exceptional could crack an egg on it damn near perfect ass is not squashed by the pantyhose it is simply showcased in it's near perfection. I am too young to need control anything. These are super sheer ultra light barely there at all.
People, I am NEKKID under that skirt. I have been walking around NEKKID through technical support for at least fifteen minutes. AND NOBODY SAID A DAMN THING. OF COURSE THEY DIDN'T!
She and I, my inside sales associate do a rapid set of calculations and decide I have not been near a single Mormon nor have I walked past any other sales people or management. I have simply entertained the mostly male under twenty-five pock marked geeks from technical support and maybe a few sleep deprived developers as well.
I am mortified. Have I mentioned that I am mortified? She tells me to relax; she tells me to consider my actions a public service, an early Christmas present.
I don't go back to tech support. Instead we walk side by side over to management and Mormons and the rest of my sales team and everything seems more or less copacetic and to this day I have indeed managed to convince myself that this major faux pas was entirely contained to technical support and a few sleep deprived developers.
But I never forgot and I was wearing, I have been wearing, I mostly wear nothing but those longish filmy skirts that have come back in style. I wear them because they are nearly completely forgiving of a waist line that fluctuates a great deal these days given my current all out sprint and a diet that often consists of nothing or pop tarts. OK, it's not always so bad as all that but sometimes.
The other day I did tuck my skirt into my pantyhose and I caught it on the way out of the stall and turned an instant shade of magenta. I hadn't done laundry lately. Or I had done laundry and hadn't bothered to dig to the bottom of the laundry basket but the pantyhose hang over the door so you get the point. Right? Right?
I live in fear of these things.
Maybe I ought to throw my undergarments over the door with the pantyhose. Just to be sure.
See? I am so scarred by that experience that the sound of the flip flip flip flip flip... stopped all coherent thought on the way up the stairs for the umpteenth time and it all came rushing back in a flood of heat and red and weak knees and by the time I got to the top of the stairs I'd forgotten to swipe my keycard and yanked at the door until I nearly pulled my arms out of the sockets. All this is on camera, by the way.
I was not mortified. I stopped, backed up and took a deep breath. By the time I walked through the door I was hearing
flip flip flip flip flip...
I looked down. There were three post-its stuck to the bottom of my heels. Two on one and one on the other. I bent down and pulled them off. Sweet! Found! Been missing for two days. Twelve missing passwords. Most excellent.
I looked around and checked the back of my skirt. There are cameras everywhere and as much as I really like our security guy; oh I don't THINK so. Not this time.