So I'm at my desk staring down the scope at the fortieth miserable diamond of the day. The shift has been long and my eyes feel heavy. I tell myself I'll get up and take a break as soon as I finish this stone, but I'm obviously fooling myself. The mind-numbing task stretches interminably, and, next thing I know, I'm jarred awake by the impact of my own face slamming into the ocu--
Oh, I've already told this one? My apologies.
Hopefully, this one's new:
I'm walking back to the building from my car after lunch. I reach the narrow section of the sidewalk, bushes on both sides. Suddenly a tiny lizard creeps out in front of me. I immediately jerk to a hard stop where I stand, and, instead of crossing in front of or around me like a sane creature, the dumb reptile crawls on top of my right shoe. Mind you, this whole sequence takes less than a second. Too fast for my mind to process, it's all been reflex, as is my next move. Human reflexes, however, are no match for the lizard's quickness. Even my panic is delayed, and, too late grasping the animal's course, I lift my right foot violently with the intention of pulling it safely out of the way. At the wrong place at the wrong time, the thing goes flying off my shoe and into the distant parking lot.
I check around me for any witnesses. She's standing just a few feet behind me, staring motionless, which tells me that she saw everything. No words, no laughter. She appears stunned, jaw agape, maybe a little offended, but, come to think of it, that's the look she's always giving me. Panic turns to bitter rage at this memory, but then control sets in. I smile with feigned satisfaction, as if it had all been by design, and then move along without another look back.