Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Volunteer (11/23/06)
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TITLE: My Volunteer Status | Previous Challenge Entry
By Marilee Alvey
11/25/06 -
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Anywho, as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself is that I’m frequently messing up. I mean well. That’s what I want on my tombstone, simply the phrase, “She meant well.” What more can you do? But I digress…….which, in case you didn’t notice, is another charming phrase that we must fight to maintain.
So the other day I went in to volunteer at this really upscale spa complex. You see, I volunteer because I LOVE to help others, but no one would ever pay me for MY volunteer abilities. I can’t seem to perform well, so I volunteer and call it even.
I sashay into the place, wanting to be of some earthly help. I see this young gal half my age, I’d say around twenty-five. She seems to be about the weight of the turkey I consumed last Christmas Eve.
She looks me up and down, taking in my glittery snowflake sweater that requires absolutely no batteries. You see, I have a disease called, “Sparkle Syndrome.” I gravitate toward anything that sparkles. My daughter says that old people glitter more as they age because it gets harder to get people to notice you. I beg to differ…and I digress.
I says, “No problem. I just want to volunteer.” Well, I can tell that her tiny brain is beginning to function. She glances right and left, then begins to talk softly so that I have to bend over to hear it.
“Okay, tell you what. I’m pretty busy today and there’s been no time for me to go to the restroom, so I’m going to let you be in charge of calling the next person in for his treatment.” By this time, she’s not even looking at me. She’s reaching into her file cabinet and pulling her purse out. “It’s very simple. All you have to do is wait for the guy who just went in to come out, then you read off the next name on the list. Simply walk the guy into the changing room, over there. Tell him to take off all his clothes, then put a towel around himself. Next, he’s to open the door a crack. Then you stick your head in and tell him to walk into the adjoining room for his treatment. Do you think you can do that?”
“Can you write down what I’m supposed to say? I don’t want to forget any of it.” After all, I’d dealt with myself before, and, like I said, there’s a reason I volunteer.
Her eyeballs seem like they’re watching a tennis game, but her birdlike hands are already scampering for a note pad. I stand my ground. I’m NOT going to take any attitude from some gal who’s younger than some of my purses. She hands me the note and takes off. I pat down my hair, smooth my polyester pants and stand up, finding two inches I didn't knew I had.
“Landon Sanderson?” I say, very professionally.
A very handsome young man rises. I can’t help but notice his beautiful young wife seated next to him. I admire God’s matchmaking skills momentarily before adding, “You can just go in with him.”
They both follow me. I tell him to undress and put the towel on, then open the door just a crack. As I close the door on that beautiful couple, I feel pretty good about it. Soon I see the door open a crack. I peek in and say, “The physical therapist will be in shortly.” Impressive, huh? I thought that up myself.
“What am I supposed to do?” the beautiful young wife asks demurely.
“You’re welcome to go in with your husband,” I offer in my most gracious voice.
Her doe-like eyes open even wider. “But….he’s not my husband. I’m just here for a job interview.”
I shot out of there like cannon fodder. I’ll be serving communion this weekend. You’re all welcome to come on over because all are welcome at His table. You’ll know me. I’ll be the one wearing the glitter.
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