The One That Burns My Butt

Just a short note to let you know that once again I find myself on the hot seat. In my office building, meetings are stacked up like arriving flights at Chicago O’Hare. As soon as the conference room empties, another meeting breaks out all willy-nilly and it’s filled up again. It’s a constant cycle making conference rooms an extremely valuable (although pretty much pointless) commodity.

Today, as I was waiting in the hallway outside the conference room waiting for the minions to shuffle out on the hour, I had time to ponder the meaning of it all. Minions. Moving back and forth. Shuffling. That has nothing to do with the point of this story – I just thought you’d like to know I actually think at times.

So now it’s our turn for the conference room. I go in and carefully select the seat that I want (with a clear view outside so that when I’m not listening it looks like I’m gazing thoughtfully). What happens? I sit down into a pool of hot. Someone else with a VERY high body temperature has recently vacated the seating device. So I sit there, trying not to freak out and jump 30 feet in the air in front of my boss, while I just feel the warmth envelope my posterior, making it its own. I feel violated, nauseated and constipated all at the same time.

It’s no different than when I go and drive my wife’s car. She invariably has turned on the seat warmer. To be fair, she DOES only turn it on when temperatures dip below 120 degrees. But I invariably don’t notice that the little switch is pressed, meaning that as I’m driving casually minding my own business, my posterior starts to stew itself into a vast puddle of posterior stew. Since it’s so gradual I don’t notice it until it’s too late. I step out of the car gracefully with a dripping pair of pants.

I don’t know why I hate hot seats so much – but hate them I do. Feel free to share your hot seat stories and we can be grossed out together.