Feeling a little blue now that the war is over

The last school day of March. Erin declared it "Dress as the
Decade You Were Born In" Day. I dressed in black
and attempted to hide during picture-taking time.
Erin found me.

 According to South Korean director, Park Chan-wook, the point of revenge is not in the completion but in the process. I'd always fancied myself more of a Coppola girl when it comes to bloodshed and vengeance but I'm trying to embrace more of a wider world-view. 

My month-long war with my arch-nemesis, the chronically-happy Erin, was (FINALLY) coming to a end as March drew to a close. I'd been lying in wait for weeks for my pièce de résistance; gathering needed supplies, conducting pre-surveillance checks, and enacting several failure analysis reports. I scoffed when, a week out, Erin lobbed some glitter missiles aimed at our faculty mailboxes. SEVENTY meticulously painted sparkly rocks each proclaiming the word "YOU" in all caps. After rolling my eyes, I stomped over to the secretaries who had taken to wearing WWII helmets and kevlar to avoid getting caught in a round of friendly fire. "Tracey," I snapped, "I need a Sharpie." Once I was able to successfully extract one Sharpie from her endless supply of assorted sizes, shapes, and colors ("Big or little? Bullet-tipped? Fine-tipped? Metallic? Pastel? Black?"), I stomped back to the mailboxes and began flipping those pebbles like pancakes, scribbling "Get" on each one. Unfortunately, as often happens in times of war, I forgot to factor the collateral damage as I caused some unforeseen psychological repercussions effecting innocent bystanders. "What does this mean?" some of my sweet elementary friends asked, confused, after reading my darker, somewhat demented, response to Erin's "You rock!" Joanne would not abide such naivety in her office. "For pete's sake," she snapped, "Amy wrote Get for Get stoned." Next came a long discussion about whether I meant the phrase in the biblical sense or the 1960's Woodstock sense. Bless their hearts.

Last night would serve as the final volley of this epic battle between bubbly and b!+*/y. I waited and waited and waited until Erin's classroom had been cleaned before I made my move. Armed with a giant roll of blue painter's tape, I began the laborious process of taping her door shut. Horizontal strips. Vertical strips woven through. A couple of Xs. Unhappy with the ragged edges around the frame, I evened them up with yellow masking tape. I attached the letters that I'd cut out...THE END...and...with arms shaking from exertion, eyes glassy with glee...snapped a selfie with my masterpiece. Revenge has never tasted so sweet!

Five minutes later, at around 7:30, I ran into friend and fellow co-worker, Loretta, her arms burdened with a box. She spotted Erin's door and shrieked. "How am I going to get in there?" she asked. "You're not," I told her, confident of my door-sealing skills. "I have to get in there," she told me. My friend Cathy appeared, her fingers poised to dial 9-1-1 as it might have looked like I was going to explode in a murderous rage (She tends to exaggerate). "Where am I going to put my box?" Loretta wondered. To my credit, I didn't say the first thing that popped into my mind (I've really been working on that.). "My room," I generously offered. There was a crushing silence as all of the players in this unscripted scene from the O.K. Corral considered their options. Loretta pulled the trigger first. "My purse is in there," she said. 

I don't remember much from that point on. Everything seemed to happen in slow-motion. I believe I may have yelled, "Fine, Loret-TAH!" before lunging forward and crashing through Erin's door like the Kool-Aid guy. It was a blue painter's tape blizzard for as far as the eye could see. Poor Loretta, rendered mute from shock, attempted to soldier-crawl beneath me as I clawed the covering from the door. Who else needs to get into Snow White's room at FLIPPIN' 7:30 at night on a THURSDAY? my inner voice screamed, To be sure, the same bluebird of happiness that craps on my car, lands lightly upon Princess Erin's finger and sings a lilting little tune! I'll give it a finger to sing on! Surely a family of squirrels MUST need to unearth their hoarded ration of nuts from this fairy tale nightmare of a room! What about a d@m^ dwarf or two? C'mon karma! It hasn't yet struck midnight! Oops. Wrong story. During my rampage, another friend (Doesn't ANYONE go home? Who stays at school until flippin' 7:30 on a THURSDAY?), Sandy had magically materialized. She spent most of her time standing with her hands clasped over her mouth in shock as she watched my embarrassing tirade. A renowned cheerleading coach, she did offer to execute a base extension to lift me up in order to grab the hard-to-reach remnants. I politely declined ("Nothing you did or said at that point was polite," Cathy told me later.). 

Without a word ("Oh...you didn't need to say ANYTHING," Cathy said, shaking her head.),  I took my boulder-sized bundle of blue tape and marched off, Cathy following silently behind me. I made it as far as the trash bins before karma (Thy name is the month of March) kicked me one more time. Finding myself hopelessly ensnared in a web of blue painter's tape, I began to flail about desperately. This was no cute kitten with scotch-tape feet scenario. This was more minke whale in trawling net nightmare. Cathy watched me, reining in her reproach until I exhausted myself. "Now can I help you?" she asked gently, carefully extrapolating me from the mess I'd gotten myself into. Sniffling, I nodded sadly. "Well, I hope you learned something this time," she scolded softly, trying not to rip all the hair from my arms as she removed the adhesive. I sniffled again. "What did you learn?" she prompted. "I learned...sniffle, sniffle...that revenge isn't sweet," I yelped as the scalping continued, "It's sticky."