A coworker just found this photo recently, taken way back on the day of this post, right at the conclusion of a Crate Race.
Which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.
Office packing crates + wheeled dollies + a bunch of bored and overcaffeinated people + long hallway = Crate Race, and also HUMILIATION
Please note my boss, who is strutting around like, "PWNED, bitches! Who's your daddy NOW, huh? HUH?"
And then there is the crate rider of the other team, who may be sobbing quietly while we taunt her.
And then there is me: defiant finger-pointing at the losers; white-knuckled grip on my crate; my hair thankfully blocking what was probably the hideous expression of Someone Who Is Taking This A Bit Too Seriously And Taking The Trash Talk Beyond Ha Ha Ha and Into Dude, AWKWARD.
Have I ever told you how ultra-competitive I am? Because, yes.
I'm not competitive about intangible things -- like I Am Skinnier Than My Ex-Boyfriend's New Girlfriend, or I Don't Care If She's Skinnier Anyway, I Have Inner Peace And Also Nutter Butters -- but I get twitchy and heart-poundy over anything with a clear winner/loser distinction.
To wit: A game of Cranium on New Year's Eve reduced me to shaking a teammate who had passed out while I ordered her to drink WATER, YOU NEED WATER, and it was not because I cared about her hangover the next day. I NEEDED HER TO PAY ATTENTION DURING THE CHARADES. WAKE UP.
And even after everybody else lost interest in the game, I informed them that we were still going to add up the score and find out who won and IT BETTER BE MY TEAM OR ELSE I AM TAKING MY CASSEROLE DISH AND GOING HOME.
We won, of course, because I'd pretty much WILLED myself out of my champagne-fueled stupor to become the only sober person at the party, thus easily trampling over the drunk people who would NEVER be able to draw the concept of "kindred spirit" with their eyes OPEN, much less closed, because I ROCK the Sensosketch, y'all.
Jason has pulled me aside on more than one occasion (like the time we were playing tennis with people and I threw my racket at them) and quietly told me to chill the fuck out, and the thing is: I KNOW. I REALLY REALLY KNOW.
I try to avoid playing sports or board games or even engaging those uppity, know-it-all trivia machines at the bar because I KNOW.
The team in that photo is calling for a rematch. Part of me thinks that I should really sit this one out, but the other part says we could go even faster if I wore a helmet and curled up all aerodynamically inside the crate and dude, would it kill my boss to wear some track shoes? Or some kind of unitard?
In competitive Crate Racing, I fear there are no real winners.
Noah and his exersaucer would school all of yo' asses, and he laughs at your pitiful tennis backhand.