Why and what's the reason for?
I have been at my job for just over two months, but in that time I have grown close to one of my coworkers, who last week asked me to help him move. A lot of people would view that as a level jump in the relationship; the ultimate gesture in male friendship. Like the Seinfeld and Mets fan that I am, my thoughts immediately went to Keith Hernandez and his antique furniture, and when a friend referenced Seinfeld when questioning my decision to help this relatively new friend move, I responded in the only way that I knew how: "I'm not driving him to the airport!"
So, on Saturday, I woke at 8:15 hungover, and was picked up and brought to move his entire three bedroom house, including four beds, an entertainment center that belonged in Cribs, and a television that weighed, conservatively, abotu 250 pounds. 10 hours later, we had loaded and unloaded the moving truck, and I had nearly killed my coworkers cousin by tripping him on a lawnmower. I got dropped off at my house, and a few hours later met a friend for some drinks. She asked me what I had been doing during the day:
"Oh, I was helping a coworker move."
"Wow. Did he pay you?"
"No."
"What? Are you crazy?"
"He needed help."
"Well, did he at least buy you a beer?"
The incredulousness was not limited to this one friend; several people I spoke to about my weekend plans were just as surprised that I was planning on spending my entire Saturday, and throwing off my whole weekend, helping someone I really don't know that well move their entire house.
My answer?
I couldn't come up with an excuse not to quickly enough.
In retrospect, here were some options:
"I'll be away that weekend."
"I'm already helping someone else move."
"Will there be girls there?"
"I don't want to."
"I have multiple sclerosis."
"I don't like you."
"What's in it for me?"
"Will there be girls there?"
"I don't speak English."
"I'm afraid of cardboard boxes."
So, alas, I was struck down by a lack of creativity -- an inability to think on my feet. Sure, that's what happened.
So, on Saturday, I woke at 8:15 hungover, and was picked up and brought to move his entire three bedroom house, including four beds, an entertainment center that belonged in Cribs, and a television that weighed, conservatively, abotu 250 pounds. 10 hours later, we had loaded and unloaded the moving truck, and I had nearly killed my coworkers cousin by tripping him on a lawnmower. I got dropped off at my house, and a few hours later met a friend for some drinks. She asked me what I had been doing during the day:
"Oh, I was helping a coworker move."
"Wow. Did he pay you?"
"No."
"What? Are you crazy?"
"He needed help."
"Well, did he at least buy you a beer?"
The incredulousness was not limited to this one friend; several people I spoke to about my weekend plans were just as surprised that I was planning on spending my entire Saturday, and throwing off my whole weekend, helping someone I really don't know that well move their entire house.
My answer?
I couldn't come up with an excuse not to quickly enough.
In retrospect, here were some options:
"I'll be away that weekend."
"I'm already helping someone else move."
"Will there be girls there?"
"I don't want to."
"I have multiple sclerosis."
"I don't like you."
"What's in it for me?"
"Will there be girls there?"
"I don't speak English."
"I'm afraid of cardboard boxes."
So, alas, I was struck down by a lack of creativity -- an inability to think on my feet. Sure, that's what happened.
posted by quint at 11:21 AM
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