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So I’m at work (shh!) and my desk is upstairs in what has been dubbed “The Tower” and it’s, I don’t know, TWO MILLION DEGREES up here… so I went to our little fridge and reached for a Coca-Cola to cool me down. As my cheeks continued to burn, it quickly became apparent to me that merely sipping on my drink wasn’t going to be enough to prevent my melting into a puddle on the floor. Soon I was pressing the can up against my cheeks, my forehead, my wrists– anything to lower my body temperature. It wasn’t long before I got the genius notion to lift my ponytail and press my Coke can against the nape of my neck.
 
“Ahhh…” I thought as chilled aluminum cooled my flushed skin, “this is really doing the trick.”
 
It was short-lived Coca-Cola pleasure, though. Because you see, when you reach your arm up over your head all akimbo like that, your notion of up and down get a little muddy. And with the Coke can being open and all, it wasn’t too long before I realized I was pouring rivulets of syrupy goodness down my dress. DOWN IN my dress. I froze and looked around, wide-eyed, and tried to appear nonchalant. Did anyone see that? Did anyone see me reveal myself as the most stupid, clumsy, senseless person ever?
 
Luckily, my coworker at the desk next to me was actually focused on her job rather than watching my inane attempts to avoid heat exhaustion. And since I’d effectively poured a quarter of a can of soda down my dress, rather than over it, I was able to casually set my beverage back on the desk and then type away at my computer for thirty seconds or so looking– for all points and purposes– like a well-dressed, put-together, capable human being. Like nothing went awry at all. Like I hadn’t just dumped my drink down my dress in a desperate attempt to keep cool. Ha! My little victory, right? Right??
 
So after I spent about a minute pretending everything was just as it should be– yep! that’s me! Busy little bee banging away on her keyboard, getting things done, crossing things off that list —I stood up and casually sauntered into the bathroom, with sticky trickles of cola pooling in my bra and dripping down my spine all the way. Once the door was shut, I frantically grabbed for a roll of toilet paper and started stuffing bits and pieces of it into my dress from any and every possible angle. I paused to look in the mirror and saw myself puffed up like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, with little white tufts of toilet paper sticking out of my neckline and poking out from under my arms. A low point, to be sure. Thankfully though, none of the soda was seeping through my dress. It could stay my sticky little secret. I closed my eyes briefly in wonder at the ridiculousness I can find myself in at any given moment, then sighed and proceeded to shuffle all my stuffing around a bit in hopes that the tissues would slurp up all that tasty Coca-Cola I’d taken an unexpected bath in.
 
My success, it seems, was minimal. I’m sitting here typing and I can feel sticky, sugary bits along my back that the toilet paper failed to seek out. In fact, I should probably go ahead and say success is absolutely eluding me today;  as I was writing this post I took a casual, defeated swig of what remained of my Coca-Cola Classic, but I took the casualness an inch too far to the left and ended up dribbling even more Coke down my face. That mouth of mine. Always changing places on me. Makes the can-to-mouth movement super complicated.
 
Even though I only had a few sips left, the rest of my drink is now abandoned at the bottom of the trash can. Because it is my nemesis and it just absolutely slayed me.
 
I am hot, sticky, humbled, and ready to go home.
Happy Monday, folks.

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