put me in.

lately, i haven’t seen much playing time.  i’ve been sitting the bench, watching the action, quite disconnected from what’s actually taking place. the thing is, though, i put myself here.  i walked off of the court, and i plopped down onto this chair voluntarily.

i expected the chair to have more cushion.

i remember before the game. this summer. august.

i am so eager.  i watch as the coach draws up the plays on the whiteboard, hanging on his every word, muscles tense, ready to put the x’s and dotted lines into action.  ready to make representation into reality.

the buzzer sounds, and i’m suddenly very confused.  this court doesn’t look like the one i saw back in the locker room, drawn with a squeaky blue expo marker.  but i should know; i just learned the play, didn’t i? in my confusion, the game goes on.

the ball is suddenly in my hands, a foreign object.  i hold it away from my body, unprotected; the other team swiftly grabs it. shoot, score. my head falls. i hear the coach saying something, but my ears are ringing, the crowd is hollering.  i can’t make out the words.

but, okay, that was just one time. just a mistake. i’ll get it together here in a minute.  the ball hits me in the head.  i recover it, though, and somehow, the ball finds its way through the hoop.  except it wasn’t ours.

i’m devastated. i thought i knew how to do this. i run off of the court as fast as i can; i want to hide from the crowd and never have to feel so confused and lost again.

most of all, oh most of all — i don’t want to look at my coach.  i could not bear to see confirmed on his face what i know to be true: i’m just not cut out for this game.

i bury my head in my towel, soaked by now with sweat and tears.

i feel a hand on my shoulder.  i slowly slip my towel off of my head and peek up into the eyes of my coach.  i’m startled deeply that there is not a trace of disappointment in his eyes. they are kind. they always have been, but today, surely today he has reason to be upset. instead, i hear him say:

‘ mel, hey, you ready? we need you out there. look — no subs. you were so eager before, you forgot to hear my voice. i am talking you through every play. listen. pick my voice out above the crowd. and really, truly — i just love watching you play. ‘

suddenly, i remember my love for the game.

except, it’s no game at all, really.

oh, i love Him so much.

the office.

i want you to meet a few of the characters at my office.  unfortunately, there is no jim to be found.

meet bob. bob is a round man in his mid-fifties or so, and he is the boss.  the main thing about bob is that you can always tell if he has had contact with a stack of papers because there will be coke stains all over them.  i always know what he ate for lunch, because it covers the front of his shirt quite artfully. but he would not like you to point that out. okay, that isn’t the main thing about him, but it seriously cracks me up.  he is constantly checking the stock market and constantly losing money in the stock market. he talks to himself more than a little bit, and he laughs after everything he says.  and he may or may not have a problem controlling the volume of his voice.

meet john.  john is my friend.  he is also about in his mid-fifties, and he just got back from a cruise.  john always gives me a piece of strawberry hard candy when i arrive, and he always gives me gum at 3:00. “is it close enough to chewin’ gum time yet?” he asks me from his office.  he just got a puppy, and he shows me pictures of it nearly every day. i have never known someone with so many stories.

meet brenda.  she was a scarecrow for halloween.  she has the most sweet, calm kindergarten teacher voice in the world, but it is kind of misleading.  she fully believes that a ghost resides in her house, and she talks about how the ghost turns on her lights while she is gone to run up her electricity bill. a few weeks ago, brenda smashed me between our rolling file shelves, and this is what began our relationship.  she called me over to her cubicle the other day to show me pictures of policemen without shirts on.  her voice does not match her personality.

meet penelope peaknuckle.  she is the kitty cat who has taken up residence outside the office.  we watch her comings and goings through the big window, and the girls by that window have taken to feeding her.  i don’t know what penelope eats on the weekends.  she used to have kittens, and they all had names too, but they have disappeared, much to our disappointment.

meet casey.  she is a tiny middle-aged woman with short curly hair, and she has a very distinct smell to her.  not a bad one, just a distinct one.  her daughter has rocket dog shoes like mine, she says.  no one likes casey.  anytime she walks up to a group and tries to add to the conversation, everyone stops talking and disperses.  in the new office, they are putting her in a room by herself because no one wants to have a desk next to her.  i like casey.  not because i’m awesome, but because i don’t really see what there is to hate so much?  sure, she talks a lot, but as far as i can tell, so does everyone in that entire office. she was a whoopie cushion for halloween.

meet kari.  she is a young girl who does something with insurance, and she is on a diet.  she eats chick-fil-a every day, though, so i guess i’d like to be on that kind of diet.  she has the same eye disease as i do, and that is mostly what we talk about.  she rearranges her desk about once a week, and you should avoid telling her that she should vote. she doesn’t like that.

meet melanie.  she is the college-aged file clerk who comes in from 1-5 every afternoon, except on fridays sometimes.  she got smashed in the file shelves the other day, and she didn’t even say anything until brenda looked in and saw that she was smashing her.  she always has weird-colored water.  and she goes to the bathroom a lot.  she brought some massive bags of tortilla chips for the halloween party that we didn’t even eat, and she always takes her shoes off. sure wish she would leave them on.