Five Routine Minutes: Dropping The F-BombPosted: August 23, 2013
Last Saturday, the people I worked with at the police department held a party to celebrate my retirement.
It actually wasn’t that kind of party. No pitchforks and torches. There were a lot of laughs and a lot of stories told.
There was even a bubble wrap suit made for me to commemorate my resistance to everyone’s efforts to protect me over my last few months.
A little note to any of you who may get a bubble wrap suit of your own one day. They are very warm. I only lasted two hours in mine.
You may recall a post I did a few years ago about an awful painting that hung in my office. The day before the party, my troops gave me a t-shirt with the painting on it. It was funny, and one example of the many reasons I will miss them terribly.
I wore the t-shirt under my shirt at my retirement celebration. When my time to speak came, after the part where I get kind of choked up and embarrassed, I started unbuttoning my shirt. I spoke of the people I worked with, how I appreciated their care and the gift they’d gone out of their way to have made for me. When the shirt was revealed in all its horrible glory I spoke of the painting in a way that I had before.
Those in the know got a good laugh out of it. In the midst of their laughter, I discovered horror. In my excitement, for just the moment I’d taken to speak of the painting, I lost track of the fact that my mother was in attendance. Mom was laughing, but I was mortified. I had tossed out the f-bomb in the presence of the sainted one.
After it was over, I confirmed that I’d said what I’d said. The truth was horrible. I apologized that night and by phone the next morning.
But I think my mother is happy enough that I’m out and healthy that she’d put up with me dropping the f-bomb for three days straight.