A Smaller Small

August 9, 2010

So I'm back from a ten day vacation, and I can't even begin to tell you how hard it was to convince myself to check my work email this morning. None of my professional contacts ever go out of their way to send me a coupon for a half-priced burrito or a free Frosty, they only email me to ask questions and demand things. It's not polite.

Do you know what else was totally not polite? The snot-ass tone of voice from the girl in front of me at the marathon packet pick-up.

For those of you who haven't run a road race (and if you haven't--why not?), before the race starts, you walk over to a table, you tell them your name, and you pick up a packet with your race number, your t-shirt, and a big bag of free condoms.

Okay fine, I've never gotten a complimentary condom at a race--but really now, how fun would that be?

Once you get your packet, you pin the number onto your shirt, you silently decide whether the t-shirt is fabulous or offensive, and then you head over for an hour-long wait in the port-o-potty line. Or if you're me, you pee behind the row of port-o-potties. Dead serious.

So I'm waiting in line behind this girl, who seems to believe that she's heaven's own gift to the marathon. Clearly not the case--Pepto Bismal is heaven's gift to the marathon. Anyhoo, she steps up to the table, takes her packet, and immediately starts in with complaints about the t-shirt. She

A) doesn't like the design,

B) doesn't care for the fabric, and

C) feels quite strongly that the size small is way too big.

Plus, she wanted to see a detailed map of the marathon course--even though the marathon course was eight identical loops around the same frikking lake.

It was the kind of situation where everyone falls silent, spins on their heels toward the scene-maker, and stares. It's like someone sent out a mental message to say, "Hey, let's all work together so we don't miss a speck of this drama, okay?"

And believe you me, we didn't.

She holds her t-shirt up to the volunteer and goes, "This is a small? It's huge. I need an extra-small."

"Sorry, we don't have any extra-smalls. Small is the smallest we have."

And she was like, "This small is big, not small.  I run marathons, I don't sit around all day, I need a smaller small."

"It's the smallest we have."

"Well this won't work," she ranted. "I need to have a smaller shirt."

So the volunteer goes, "Maybe you can find another small friend to hop in there and help you fill it out. That would be cute. And small."

If I could, I'd give one hundred billion points to the volunteer.