Sixth Floor Shame

He had beautiful hands, and goddamn it all to hell, beautiful hands always get me. They're nice when they're pointing, they're nice when they're twirling a pen, they're nice for a whole lot of things.

I was day dreaming about those things as County Counsel gave myself and my three new coworkers our 'Dependency 101' training. Not only was he externally gorgeous--beautiful hands (worth mentioning twice), broad shoulders, and a shock of thick blonde hair that fell just right, but he took time to connect with each of us before starting. There was also some voodoo fashion and cologne combo thing happening, but since I'm largely fashion illiterate, I can't really dissect the magic for my readers. All I can say is that I was very aware of having a sports bra and granny panties on in the presence of this magnificent man.

When we finished, we left the sixth floor conference room together and he wished us a good day as he dropped us at the elevator. I want to repeat, for the record, that HE DROPPED US AT THE ELEVATOR. I saw him disappear down the hallway, and yes, as the saying went, I liked to watch him leave.

I turned to my colleagues. Though we'd only been working together for a few weeks, I felt comfortable in their presence, and they'd proven to have a great sense of humor. We chatted for a few seconds about what we'd learned while we waited for one of us to get out of the bathroom, and then I interjected, in my naturally resonant speaking voice: "And was it just me, or was that a BEAUTIFUL man?"

Their faces when blank, and for a second I wondered if they'd heard me. Confident in my fact based assertion, I repeated, "Guys, I said wasn't that a beautiful man? Like, I wouldn't kick him out of bed for any reason kind of beautiful." Some of you who are well versed in foot in mouth disease know what happened next.

"Fancy meeting you all here. I had to turn around when I realized that this was the only elevator on this floor." I turned around and, sure enough, there stood beautiful lawyer man, radiating beauty right into my stupid face. My thirteen year old self ran screaming down the hallway and jumped through the plate glass window to escape my shame. My forty one year old self stayed right there, giving what I hoped was the correct face for an innocuous elevator meet up.

My colleagues said things for four floors while we rode together. In the meantime, I prayed to every deity I'd ever heard of, and a few I invented on the spot, that the elevator didn't get stuck so that I was forced to use my sports bra and granny panties to rig a trampoline with which to catapult us to safety. When he said his goodbyes and the doors closed, we shook the elevator laughing.

"Oh my god you guys, do you think he heard me?"

"Maybe not the first time, but definitely the second," Edna responded.

"Why didn't you stop me, I only repeated myself because I thought you didn't hear me. I'm so mortified!!!"

"What would you suggest that we said? 'Hey Chelsea, the guy you're sexually harassing is right behind you so chill out a second?'"

We walked back to our cubicles laughing. The next three months it became a running joke: 'Is it just me, or is this a beautiful spreadsheet?' or 'I wouldn't kick this court report out of bed.' As with all friendly, but public shamings, fighting them only makes it worse.

And beautiful lawyer man? Fortunately I never had a reason to see him again, though I still did think about those hands.