This post is about the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics. If you are an Olympics-hater, I respect that! Maybe skip this one.
As most of you know, I am volunteering for the Vancouver 2010 Games. While my first three volunteer choices – luge track tester, Quatchi and on-ice-figure-skating-teddy-bear-retriever – were denied, I DID end up with a pretty cushy gig.
I’m working at the Olympic Family Hotel, where many of the International Olympic Committee members are staying. Some of the IOC members are actually royalty. And I’ll be meeting them … wearing this toque.
I’m still not sure what my exact job is – I could be working at the information booth telling people where the shitters are in both of Canada’s official languages or I could be outside telling people where they can park their bobsleds. I’m not too concerned about where I’ll end up, really – especially now that I’ve already faced the biggest source of my volunteer anxiety – the uniform. Specifically, whether or not it would fit. Even more specifically, whether the pants would fit.
My ass…is like the Rockies. Majestic, breath-taking, and it seems to go on forever. Few pants can hold her – none can tame her. And while I knew the Vancouver 2010 Volunteer Uniform came in several sizes, I was pretty concerned that “Earth Mother of Willendorf” wouldn’t be one of them.
I didn’t know what would happen if the uniform and I were incompatible. Would I be fired from my post? Would I have to sew two pairs of pants together to make hilarious tear-away pants? Or would I get to go pantsless at the greatest sporting event our country has ever hosted??
My moment of truth was last week when I went to collect my volunteer accreditation (I tried to smize in my photo but I just ended up looking bunged up – thanks for NOTHING, Tyra Banks) and my uniform.
They make you try on all of the uniform pieces before they give them to you and I was a little beady-eyed with fear by the time I got to the uniform collection area. When I walked into the changing hall, the Scottish man in charge looked me up and doon and said “Hi, I’m Dave. Do you want to try the ladies 2X or…?” and subtly gestured “HIGHER” with his thumb.
“No no,” I said, “I’m gonna need the man-sized pants, Dave. I’m gonna need the biggest pants you got.”
“Here you go then, dear,” he said as he handed me the man-bag of clothes and held the curtain back for me. I’m pretty sure I heard a “Good luck, lassie.” as he drew the curtain shut.
Shirt – fine. Sleeves too long, but fine. Vest – fine. Zips up and everything! Ooo, soft. So soft. Just want to rub myself all over…maybe at home. Jacket – fine. Sleeves too long again but that just gives me more room for snacks. And now…
I saved the pants for last. I held my breath and said a prayer as I pulled them on. I kept waiting for them to deny me, to grip at my thighs or make a horrified scream of protest as I drew them up over my goddess-like rear. But…no. I pulled them on. I did them up. I checked to make sure I had put the uniform pants on and had not just put my own pants on again by accident. They actually…fit. And they were really…comfortable. And they looked pretty…good.
My whoop of victory brought Dave ambling over to check if things were alright. “Dave,” I said, nearly weeping with delight, “I love these pants, Dave.”
“We all love the pants, lassie. We all love the pants.”
It was pretty awesome when I went to collect my man-sized pants down the hall. I was VERY excited to find pants that fit and more than happy to point out what size I needed, whereas the very sweet volunteer was all discreet about the actual size instead of shouting it out like she had for the three people ahead of me – like she was passing me a tampon at the office or something.
It kind of reminded me of the time I went to the pharmacy and loudly announced to the pharmacist that I had a rash and would like some kind of ointment. The pharmacist kept responding in hushed tones, like we were on a golf course watching Tiger Woods get it on with the 12th hole and I kept answering in a normal voice and he was so horrified. Oh, good times…
Anyway – the point is that the pants fit and they make a keen swiffing sound. Score!
Stay tuned for my next Vancouver 2010 Olympic volunteer post – things I have to remember not to say while on the job! Seriously…it’s in the handbook. It’s like THEY KNOW ME.
