Forget Ass-Groping, Let's All Enjoy A Good Man Handling

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Our little team building exercises went from bad to worse. You know that activity where you have wire stretched across a frame forming impossibly small holes that you are supposed to hoist impossibly fat people through. Without touching the wire. (If my terribly clear description was a bit confusing, you can check out details and pictures of similar challenges here. Please note: the pictures do not provide an accurate example of the size of our holes. Ours were tiny. Tiny.)

Our fearless leader did a very careful job of painting a rather vivid picture of the spider web we were passing our team members through. We were in the Amazon. If we touched the web, the giant spider would come down and eat us. (Er, excuse me, is this kindergarten all over again?!) In any event, we were to work as a team. They refused to face the fact we would rather pick a team member to sacrifice to the "spider" so we could kill it and thereby skip the exercise entirely. Realism wasn't too high on the list of priorities, apparently.

Since we had plenty of strong/fat/huge guys willing to prove their strength, all this paticular challenge required for me to do was stiffen my body and allow eight men to grab various parts of my body and pass me through the "web". As soon as the exercise was announced I shrank to the back of the group and begain furiously praying we would run out of time before it would be my turn. Ah. No such luck.

One other fellow I work with also has the same negative feelings about being touched. We were trying to give each other moral support, but kept imagining even worse scenarios for one another. He won hands down when he began pointing out that he was sure there would be no shortage of volunteers to try and tuck by perky boobs through. You know, just to be sure they didn't touch the wire. Thanks, man. THANKS FOR MAKING ME WANT TO RUN TO THE BACK OF THE ROOM AND VOMIT.

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, it was my turn. I leaned back into the arms of eight sweaty men and stiffened my body. Part of being able to fit through this narrow space was the raising of my hands above my head. Do you realize just how prominently perky 34D boobs are when your body is perfectly straight AND your hands are above your head? Of course this was the day my jeans were slightly too big and this revealed the edge of my lacy underwear. There I am. Arms above my head. Defenseless. Boobs pointing skyward. Toes pointed. Body stiff. Eyes narrowed into slits of death. Mouth bitten into a firm, hateful line.

I lay in their arms dying on the inside. Absolutely dying. Envisioning the hot, hot shower I would be taking as soon as I got home. They pass me through. Let me assure you, I was liberally manhandled. Wait! NO! SOMETHING TOUCHED THE WIRE AT THE VERY END. I had to go again. This time, I must be stiff and perky, but twist and writhe to get through correctly. By the time I was properly passed through without touching, I was shaking with the sheer desire for it to be over. Once my feet were on solid ground, I slunk to the back and whimpered like a violated dog.

You think this would be plenty of touching for everyone. Lots of touching. Touch, touch, touch. Apparently not. APPARENTLY OUR COMPANY ENCOURAGES SLEEPING TOGETHER. At the end of our exercise we had to form a tight shoulder to shoulder circle whereby we all turned to the right and gave that person a backrub. A BACKRUB! Thankfully, on my one side was my cohort in personal space advocation. We gingerly tapped each others backs. But to my other side?


Luck doesn't always favor me.

The new guy who is the very personification of sketchy. Overly gummy smile. Slight receding hairline. Oily sheen on his too tan skin. Very sketchy. I was trying to give him a very vague sort of backrub. But we were having quality control inspections by leadership. Dammit! And then, when he had to rub my back, I could feel his fingers creeping downwards. SOMEONE SHOOT ME NOW.

Once it was all over and I ripped myself away from all this creepiness, he sidles up to me and tells me that the backrub I gave him was. pause, phenomenal.


Not just phenomenal, but said in the tone solely reserved for bad sitcoms after the couple has enjoyed some cheesy and experimental sex. You know, when the guy rolls over and breathlessly says, "that was phenomenal". Yeah. That tone. Not paticularly the tone I wanted to hear from the new sketchy guy.

At this point, group hugs look pretty frickin' sweet.

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This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.

the past


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