It’s been rumored that 2011 is the year of feelings. I personally think I have too many feelings and have spent pretty much every day of every year leading up to this one being upset about something, but whatever. The power of suggestion has instilled in me the desire to make this year something different. My friends and family suggested therapy, but instead I went to Target and bought a big bouncy ball to sit on at work. I figured taking myself off the proverbial throne of my fancy lady office chair would knock me down a few notches and help me to realize that we’re all in this together, or something. Honestly I just preferred to spend $15 on this rather than vitamins or a yoga DVD, or any other number of things that would help me to “simmer down.” What am I, a hippie?
Supposedly the benefits of sitting on a big ball instead of a chair are:
- Proper spine alignment
- Causes you to change positions often
- Improves balance
- Burns 360 calories a day
What the box doesn’t mention is that if you sit on it just so, you can totally masturbate.
Upon inflating my ball chair and taking it on its maiden voyage, I was not pleased. I made a big production out of rolling my old office chair off to the corner where the interns sit and plopping down on my new “life is fun, look, I’m having fun” accessory, but I couldn’t make a move on the thing without having it make a rubbery fart noise, or imagining how my butt cheeks looked, all spread out on it like a fat baby resting its chin on its fat hands. “This thing sucks!” I was telling myself, as I wrapped my thighs around it to get better balance, and then …
So yeah, it’s hard to get stressed out and scream and yell at people when you’re rolling out some amazing orgasms while replying to emails. And the best part is that no one even knows what’s going on because it’s a ball chair, you’re SUPPOSED to wriggle around and bounce up and down on it. The other day a co-worker was looking at me funny like maybe he knew what was going on, but then I was all like, “WTF are you looking at?”
Kelly McClure lives in Olympia, Washington, and spends most of her days checking and re-checking a variety of lists. She writes stuff, works at a record label, and gets hives quite easily.