Seeing spots

Before I weave this short tale of a conversation at work today, I need to preface the story with the explanation of a term.

In the transportation industry, and especially within supply chain and logistics, companies sign contractual rates with carrier companies to ensure special pricing for the customer.  However, sometimes the pricing is not sufficient enough to entice long haul drivers, and we, the supply chain managers, must make an addendum to their contracts.  This addendum is referred to as a Spot Market Contract and it is meant to only be a restricted contract to a specific lane for a specific period of time.

So let the story begin…

I walked to my supervisor’s desk where another coworker was standing and told him that so-and-so from such-and-such company was on the line.  He let out a forgetful sigh and headed back to his desk, following in my footsteps.  From behind, my supervisor shouted to my coworker to tell me I had a Spot.  Thinking he meant I had a Spot Market Contract, I turned around and waited to hear.

I said, “where?”

They said, “right there, and pointed at me.”

I looked around and saw nothing.  So I threw them a puzzled expression and awaited another comment.

They said, “No – on your shirt.”

Now, this part is not particularly funny, that is, unless you’re a man or a female of my same proportions.  The spot was on my shirt.  A nice, circular block of chili sauce from my sample at lunch.  Apparently, my subconscious self wanted to skip the digestive processes of ingesting food and go straight to the source through my fair pink sweater.  Unfortunately, it made for a nasty, messy surprise.

But, this story gets better.  In fact, it reflects the true nature of my stupidity.

After cleaning the spot off my sweater as best I could, I chatted with a few cube mates about the incident.  They asked why I could not see it, and only one woman understood.  If my massive breasts did not inhibit my view of the floor, there might have been potential to spot the spot.  Unfortunately, in this male dominated atmosphere, they would not understand that.  Luckily, while other parts of my chest overhang, my stomach manages to stay straight.  I cannot see spots under those things.  It is not humanely possible to even see my shoes when I stand up and look down.

The last, and best portion, was explaining to them my confusion and utterly idiotic thought process that occurred within seconds of their notification of my little chili-colored accident.  When they told me I had a spot, I looked for the paper contract.  I thought it might be at the fax machine.  Or maybe even on my desk.  When they said the spot was on me, I thought they meant someone physically taped it to me as a joke.  Doubling over, they laughed at my ensuing dumbness.

If only I could spot the moments where I should shut the talk valve off.

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