In the Tank

I went into the tank today at work.

That isn’t to say that I tanked. Or my career tanked. I literally went into the tank. The Dunk Tank. At the company carnival.  Yay me.

Actually, I volunteered if you want to know the truth.

It was part of my plan. I am a party of one in my peer group at work. Singularly crucified for not wearing pantyhose.  Mysteriously in support of tattoos. Not a clock watcher. Frequently noticed for my vast collection of colorful, unorthodox cowboy boots worn with skirts (And again, no pantyhose. I am still shocked that they make them.) Known for my Devil’s Advocate dissenting opinion on such flagrantly disrespectful conduct like working from home, flexible schedules, compressed work weeks, the wearing of capris, jeans days, open-toed shoes, unnatural-colored streaks in one’s hair, and blue nail polish. 

What is the world coming to?

When the folks that report to the Old Guard see what the young guns get away with in my department, there is a jealousy so palpable it feels like a change in the weather. And since the Old Guard think I let my (highly productive and gloriously happy) employees run amok, the obvious interpretation is that there is something wrong with me. Natch. And the staff are …well, confused.

So when the call went out asking for volunteers to get in the dunk tank and be sent for an impromptu swim in front of thousands of colleagues,  - the young, the old, the highly compensated and the working class Joes,  - I raised my hand (blue nail polish and all.)

It was the best thing I could have done.

The day of the carnival was cloudy and cool. Not ideal weather to go for a swim in a 4 foot deep tank filled with freezing water fresh from the garden hose.

But I was undeterred.

In my wet suit shirt I borrowed from Scott, and some cool board shorts from a local surf shop, I flip flopped to the lawn and climbed onto the seat of the tank. My power suit wearing, pantyhose clad, closed-toed shoe carnival going colleagues who volunteered for such taxing things as handing out tickets for one hot dog and one drink stood in shocked amazement. Like I must have lost a bet.

But I bravely took my seat, and splashed water playfully. Smiled through purple lips. Cheered and jeered the folks who paid their dollars to dunk an administrator in public. Laughed when little kids stood close enough to reach out and hit the target, and then did so when they missed.

I must have gone into the water a dozen times. Took a quick wipe under my eyes to avoid looking like Alice Cooper, and smiled good-naturedly as I climbed back up on the bench, water trailing away from my behind, and hair dripping in big wet clumps down my back and across my shoulders.

It was the best thing I could have done.

It was completely unexpected from a woman. A normally well dressed, finely groomed woman. Going into the dunk tank is Man’s Work.

It was completely sporting. Who would have thought anyone would volunteer to do such a decidedly unpleasant thing on Employee Appreciation Day?

It showed exactly what I was made of. I had been professing my philosophy all along but needed something to make it genuine.

If for a moment, the Generation Yers and beyond questioned which leader in my department they would follow into battle, they had their answer. With this one act of good-natured bravery and self-deprecating sportsmanship, I made a statement: I will accept your tattoos and your pink hair, in exchange for superior work and good team-manship. What matters to me is what you do, not how you look doing it or how long you sit at your desk doing it. If our customers are happy and your work is reliable, the rest is immaterial. And by the way, I will get dirty with you while you get it all done.”

Or in this case, I’ll get soaking wet. And I will make a public display of doing so.