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Go to Plan BBy: Jim Hasse
Summary:
From the book, "Break Out: Finding Freedom When You Don't Quite Fit The Mold," a modern literary memoir of 51 short stories about what it means to be presumed different. 
Junius I could feel it in my nostrils and went into a brief panic. I was drowning. I tried to take a breath and, instead, let out a long, loud snort. I took off my glasses and grabbed some paper toweling to wipe off my red face, blue shirt, crimson tie and navy suit pants. "I'm sorry," I said softly, trying to express my regret that such a stupid thing should happen during an executive staff meeting in which we were trying to finalize our contingency plans for the upcoming year. "That's OK," the president replied for the whole group of six other vice presidents. We sat around a rectangular conference table, eating our high-cholesterol lunches of cold French fries, tough Rueben sandwiches and milk. No one spoke for a moment. "Damn suit," I finally said. "I just got it dry-cleaned." Several of the guys chuckled. It was not that what I said was so funny. I glanced around the table and detected tinges of uncomfortableness -- mixed with some pity and a realization that such an incident could happen to each of them. I could see each of them questioning themselves about how they would react, if they had received the milk bath. The vice president of finance announced, "I'll get some more paper toweling." He left the room on the run. But, that didn't relieve the tension. "How you going to explain that one to Pam?" the vice president of manufacturing finally chided. "Come home with chocolate milk all over yourself?" "I'll do my Superman switch before I walk in the front door," I shot back, and we all laughed. "You can go clean up, if you want," the president said. "We'll go on with our meeting." "No, that's OK," I declined. "Not much you can do with chocolate stains." "How about dropping your suit off at the dry-cleaners on the way home?" one of the other guys suggested. "Pam won't think a thing of it, if you walk in the door in your underwear." "I'll take my chances with a stained suit," I replied. Another chuckle. As we went on with our meeting, I privately cussed those pint milk cartons and vowed to always bring a solid coffee mug to our monthly staff meetings so I could drink my milk from a cup. For the first 48 years of my life, I had gotten by. I thought I had mastered America's masculine way of drinking milk from a carton without a straw. I'd carefully grab the carton with both hands, steady it on the table, tip it slightly and bring my head down to drink from the v-shaped spout. I can usually judge how firm my grip will be around something crushable such as a milk carton. But, I was edgy that day -- and daring. I sat straight in my chair and raised the carton to my mouth while it was still full of milk. Suddenly an involuntary squeeze from both of my hands collapsed the cardboard carton, forcing the milk into my face like a syringe. Milk in a carton was one more item to add to my internal list of "What To Do, Ifs," a mix of merely embarrassing situations as well as the truly dangerous that I have learned to anticipate, diffuse or avoid through the years as a person who has cerebral palsy.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Bookmark this article to: 
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