Pouring Water on a Drowning Man

While I am fairly tall for a woman (some might say average, I might say tall), I am highly disproportionate. I have long legs (score!) and a somewhat stunted torso (freakish). This is never more apparent than when I sit at my desk here at the Foundation on Aging offices.

My desk is a lovely piece donated by a lovely woman who volunteers on our Communications Committee. Because it was donated, my desk and I have quite the close relationship. I went to pick it up one misty March day last year, after about a month on the job. For help, I had the 17 year-old nephew of my boss. I think I weighed more than this guy, but he and I liked the same kind of music so I was immediately impressed with him.

He helped me carry the desk in pieces to the back of my family’s Aerostar van, which I had on loan for the day. I am not strong. This kid was not strong. It took a lot of out me. In the meantime, I was being peppered with phone calls from my drunk friends, for this was no ordinary misty March day – it was St. Patrick’s Day. Everyone, it seemed, was at the parade or crammed into a crowded bar. I, for sure, was moving furniture with a high school junior.

So the desk. We got all the pieces back to my office, and sprawled them on the floor of our office reception area (hence the term receptionist). I put them together with a screwdriver my young friend found on the floor of his car. It was shaky at best for many months, until I asked our building’s maintenance man (a story in himself, let me tell you) to borrow an electric drill.

Now, my desk stands solid under the weight of much crap – papers, files, flat screen, keyboard pens, phone, printer, papers, mail, etc etc and office infinity. Its L-shape accommodates a lot of crap. The crap sits on a surface seemingly normal-distanced from the floor.

This distance between the floor and the top of my desk is not good for me. The stunted torso is a great disadvantage while sitting at the donated desk. Most days, I cross my ankles underneath myself and sit “Indian style,” giving myself a few extra inches of false torso. It’s pretty hard for strangers walking into the reception area, expecting to be received by an adult, and being confronted with a spindly girl sitting “Indian style.”