What Happens When You Don't Use a Chair

I bought a yoga ball to sit on at work and help alleviate my "kicky feet" as well as  aid in juicing up my kinesthetic brain passages.  Due to my cubicle's rather open position facing down a hallway, people could see me bouncing up and down on my big blue yoga ball while I translated medical documents.  One of my co-workers commented that this was strange to see, but if she had a yoga ball to sit on herself, I doubt she would have said anything.

I was quite happy to sit there and bounce while I typed.  The ball didn't properly "bounce" and get air, it just let my restless legs keep rhythm to whatever what was firing off in my mind while I'd flick words onto the computer and, depending on the mental nature required of my translation, listen to music or podcasts out of the privacy of my headset while I typed.

The only problem I had was that the ball was noisy to blow up, so I tended to top it off after hours in order to not disturb my neighbors.  It occurred to me that there might be something improper to the whole picture:  I would contendly bounce on my ball and listen to music that invigorated my spirit while I thinking how to best translate a document in which some unfortunate person was describing how their life was falling apart.  But if my spirits were up, my translations would be better and hopefully the individuals in question would get the help they needed.

In this particular morning I had assumed the position to work and bounce, and since I was working on a blood lab, something which I find almost complete joy in translating, I was able to listen to a podcast as well. Blood labs, like any translation, do demand attention to detail, but they mostly consist of lists of numbers set in a template I already have established.  So, while they are long and rather tedious, they are extremely simple and straightforward, and it is easy to see that you are making progress in them.  Therefore, my mind is at liberty to spin a couple of extra plates while I crunch up and double check my numbers of uric acid measurements and white blood cell counts listed.

In this particular instance, my corner of my mind began to  mull over if there wasn't something wrong with my dear yoga ball. It seemed to need more refills of air, but I couldn't tell if it wasn't holding air as well as it had when I first got it, or if I was imagining things.  I could tell it wasn't able to support me as well as it could before and I thought to myself that it really is time to top it off again.  The very instant I was thinking this, the whole goddamn thing exploded, dropping me flat on my unbraced bum.  As I crashed through space and onto the floor in front of my computer I couldn't decide if surprise, sudden and unexpected pain, or wounded pride was more of a problem, so I yelped out "Ow, my ass!" and decided that would have to do.

Since I had music playing through my earphones, I had no idea how loud the pop of the ball had been, but apparently it rang out across the office because even people from down the hall started coming into my cubicle to see if I hadn't somehow had an aneurism and fallen off my desk.  They rushed into my cubicle to find me still sitting on my sore bum on the floor in the middle of my now shattered yoga ball with my headphones still stuck in my ears and feeling very undignified.  I felt as if I had been caught doing something wrong rather than just the victim of a expedited rubber ball deflation.  I would be remiss though if I didn't say that I was also touched that they  hurried over, looking concerned and ready to help if I needed it.

My neighbor who had said I looked strange sitting and bouncing was one of the first responders, but later admitted she was very reluctant to step into my cubicle, because if I had fallen and was bleeding out of a head wound, she said she would have collapsed. There would have been no shame.  I recently got blood drawn for a check up and nearly passed out twice in a row.

After everyone saw that I was fine things returned to business as usual and I picked up the shattered rubber wings that had once allowed me to sit and probably screw up my back, and I was left to ask myself, was this karma?  Had I somehow upset the balance of the universe while happily finding a niche in my career, using my love for language, but translating documents written by people in deep pain? Or was this just a freak of nature; a yoga ball gone bad?  

Some questions have no answers.