by Chris Gander
Beads of sweat trickle slowly down the back of my leg until they are inevitably soaked up by my sponge-like suit pants. My cubicle at work feels like a sauna – without all the naked people. Anna walks by my desk wearing a short, summery business dress and I can’t help noticing her legs. No, I’m not a pervert, I’m just jealous that her legs are roaming free while mine are being held captive in a polyester prison.
Anna catches me staring and it’s as if I’m a kid again and I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. A sly smile begins to form on her face, which in turn renders me totally and utterly confused.
A demolition derby of thoughts begins to rush through my head. Did she like that I was looking at her legs or is she smiling because she now has something over me? Could this be the Pam & Jim moment I’ve been waiting for my whole life? What does she do to keep in such great shape?
I avert my eyes quickly and wonder why society demands that every red-blooded white collar male hide their glorious pins behind a layer of fabric whilst at work. Are our manly, beefy legs repulsive and/or offensive? No, they’re just a couple of hairy limbs and they deserve as much freedom in the workplace as those belonging to members of the opposite sex.
A spark ignites in my heart and I immediately start channelling William Wallace on the hills of Scotland. A man who, might I add, enjoyed the cool breeze on his legs while he was at work cutting his enemies to shreds. Tomorrow will be the day I bare my scarred up knees and bulging quads to the world.
It’s 8:50am and I’m finding it hard to pluck up the courage to walk into work. An old lady walking her dog spots me from across the street and ogles me like I’ve just walked into the women’s bathroom. Even her dog is staring at me. I ask myself: What would Hank Moody do? He’d give her a crotch thrust, put his cigarette out on the pavement and walk into work like he owns the God damned building.
I wave awkwardly at the old lady and creep into work as stealthily as possible. Sorry Hank.
Getting to the safety of my cubicle without anyone noticing my pale white trunks is now my only objective. I contemplate getting on the floor and re-enacting Thomas Anderson’s escape attempt in The Matrix but decide that risking a discarded staple entering my exposed knee flesh is not worth it.
Luckily most people have already arrived at work and are seated in their own cubicles. Their divider panels cut my legs off as I walk past and they fail to notice that I’m now at least 30% naked. I crack a forced smile when a few colleagues engage in meaningless small talk and collapse into my chair.
I made it. Phew!
“Are you really wearing shorts?” Anna bursts out as she comes hurtling into my cubicle.
“Well come on then, stand up and let me see.”
I stand up slowly and comically begin to spin around.
With that, she disappears before I’ve even had time to decipher whether she was flirting with me or cracking a joke. Either way, I got my moment.
Right on cue, my boss, a real Bill Lumbergh type bastard, sticks his head over my divider and comments that shorts are not part of company policy. Dammit.