Everyone has a story to tell. You know, the story of their life, the story that makes them who they are. Everyone has one, and everyone longs to tell theirs in one way or another. These stories are the stuff of life; they inspire others to new resolve, add texture to relationships, and bind both friends and strangers together.
Then there are people who have stories. Things happen to them - funny things, random things, strange fixes - and they have to share. Indiscriminately. I happen to be one of those people.
Taco Tuesday Confessions (the blog) was born from this personality trait of mine, as was the NOVA Chapter of Taco Tuesday itself (weekly construction and consumption of tacos on - you guessed it - Tuesday nights). It all began with the confession of a now-not-so-secret family story about tacos. Upon hearing this story (I think via gchat) Jane thought it was so funny that we began holding our own Taco Tuesdays, minus the - ahem - proverbial tacos. Jane also thought it would be funny if I shared my very first, very personal Taco Tuesday Confession to kick off my Confessions blog. I think she might be right, but I never know. My judgment in this area is sometimes not so sound. Regardless, it will serve as a starting point of immortalizing my indiscriminate storytelling. I would like to title this first one "Flying Buttons."
So there's this legal assistant at work who just drives me crazy. He constantly prints to my high-speed printer, delaying my jobs and draining the toner. He never replaces the toner, and he never fills the paper. Part of my job each morning is to print a series of emails forwarded to me by my boss. Inevitably, by the second email, I see the printer light flash orange, alerting me that the printer is, once again, out of paper. The routine is simple: I heave a sigh, curse his name, drag myself out of my chair, walk into the printer cubby hole, and find a ream of paper. I put the ream on the desk next to the printer, then flip it over so the seam side is up. I then slip my finger under the end of the packaging, unfold the end, and grasp both sides firmly in preparation. Then, I pull with equal firmness in hopes of getting a clean rip straight along the seam. Of course, I never do; it usually rips to the sides about halfway down. So each time, I try a different technique in hopes that one day I might rip it cleanly from end to end. I know, a lot of thought for such a small task, right? But you have to know one other thought that pops into my head each time I go through this ritual. I can't help it. I feel super lame and a little bit dirty, but still, the thought persists, and the odd thing is, I never think this thought until the moment of rippage. It is this: each time I rip that ream of paper along its seam, I have a vision of ripping open a man's button-down shirt. .... And there you have it; my simple morning routine just turned into a trashy romance novel.
When I shared this at the Taco Tuesday table, I thought the laughter would never stop. Everyone was wiping their eyes, clutching their sides. I felt my face flush bright red. I couldn't believe it: I was embarrased...for about 10 minutes. Then I thought, "This really is a great story. I can't wait to tell it again." I hope it's still a good story without the hand gestures.
