There has been a pair of black leggings in the copy room since Monday.
Sometimes they're on the counter. Sometimes they're on the chair. I would not be terribly surprised if tomorrow I went to stow my Diet Coke in the fridge and they were in there, casually flung next to someone's three-day-old Bertucci's pizza, an errant hem dangerously flapping at the edge of the salad crisper.
How did they get there? I wonder. Did a modern dance enthusiast get lost on her way to a performance and somehow wind up in our suite, whereupon she shed half her clothes in confusion and despair? Is that troll-like woman who always leaves the bathroom door open actually a Sienna Miller impersonator by night? Did one of the HUNDREDS of undergrad girls who crowd the sidewalks clad in ballet flats, black leggings and very very small jean skirts suddenly realize "my God, my normal-sized ass looks enormous in this ridiculous outfit!" and run into the nearest open office to frantically change into sweatpants like a normal college student should wear? And leave the evidence behind? Inquiring minds want to know, people!
Do you have a better idea of how a pair of leggings came to live in our copy room? Knowing the origin of the infestation is key. Because if they set up camp for good and start inviting gaucho pants and high-rise pleated jeans to come live with them, I'm going to have to get a new job. A new job in a place where ill-advised trendy pants don't randomly visually assault the employees.
Workplace safety, friends. Now more than ever.