- 3:45PM PST: A student body leader passes 38 numbers out of a hat. I'm #17.
- 3:58PM PST: 16 people have selected (and occasionally stolen per the rules of the game) cookie cutters, Christmas ornaments, barbecue sauce, lamps, etc, etc.
- 3:59PM PST: I go for the smallest gift. Organic soap called "Kiss My Face." Regift potential: high.
- 4:10PM PST: Will Winkler, whom students, faculty, and parents refer to by the single letter "X," steals my soap.
- 4:12PM PST: Given the choice between some awesome known commodity and the unknown, I'll almost always select the unknown. It's a sickness. Stepping past a leopard-print umbrella and a Johnny Cash collection, I open up Richard Carlson's best-seller Don't Sweat the Small Stuff — and It's All Small Stuff and finally understand regret. Regift potential: nil.
- 4:30PM PST: There are five gifts left on the table. One of them is mine.
- 4:35PM PST: There are three gifts left on the table. One of them is mine. I begin to worry.
- 4:37PM PST: There are no more takers. Everyone has a gift. Two are left and one is mine.
I blame my colossal TA Katy's homemade wrapping paper which featured angler fish a little too prominently for the faculty's tastes, I guess.
Sucks for my colleagues. There was a Utilikey underneath those angler fish. Yeah. That's right. A little combo pocket knife / screwdriver / bottle opener that collapsed into a key and which could've been yours had you only looked past the scary wrapping paper.
There's a metaphor there, I'm positive, but no way I'm gonna spend my time sniffing it out. 'Cause that's small stuff. And I don't sweat that anymore.