Patches

I think it says something about yourself when you've earned a nickname at work. It's a broad mindset, if you think about it; you're either an identity someone endears you to, a name that's used unpleasantly when you're not around, or a code name so that others won't know you're talking about them while they're standing two feet from you. I'll narrow it down to three categories:

- Affection (reminding you of that person, so they simply must be called that)
- Disdain (better known as, So, you remember that person from the other day? which also means you're not longer a person - you're a that.)
- Humor (commonly used between girls who want to talk about that cute guy while he's right there. 'Cause it's fun 'cause he doesn't know.)

I have a few people at work I call by certain names. One of my leads shares the last name of one of my former favorite players from the Royals, so I simply call him Avila. "Ask Avila - he should be at his desk." A girl I started with during my second stint with the temp agency is short with red hair, so, despite her own name being shortened to a nickname, I call her Red. "Hey, Red. What's up?" (She absolutely denies her hair is red, by the way, but I have a red-headed mother. I know what I'm talking about.) I never really thought about a nickname for myself and never really feel inclined to discuss any potential labels. Nicknames, of course, are to be earned in some way, right? A way to establish an identity amongst people who know you well. A way to bind a team and make them closer. Avila. Red. Sexy Matt. (Though, that last one was his own doing, but it was too funny to ignore altogether. When the quietest man in the room says that, to differentiate between the other Matt's there to call him "Sexy Matt," he'd better be ready to hear it a lot. He has. To his credit, he takes it with a smile.)

With my revelation as a drummer, I wondered negatively if I was going to get a nickname related to that. It wouldn't be a bad thing, but it wasn't something that I wanted to be my identity at work. I walk an average of fourteen miles a day. I drink three 1.5 liter water bottles during that time. I've already worn through three pairs of socks and one pair of shoes. Something that had to do with drumming just didn't seem... right.

Two months ago, my floor lead revealed, quietly, that I was her favorite. Two days ago, she walked onto the mezzanine floor, saw me walk past her, and said, "Hey Patches!"

Patches? I had my iPod headphones in, so I didn't know if she was talking to me directly at first. I raised a fist in the air to acknowledge her comment, but didn't hear anything about it later on. When she gave me a tub to my work things in, she pulled out a label so I could write my name on it. Instead, she pulled out a blue marker and wrote "The Favorite" on it with a smiley face. (I told her it was fine, that people knew I was oddball enough that they'd think I'd done it, or at least goaded her to do it. This was after I expressed my displeasure at becoming an official member of Jersey Shore.) Shortly thereafter, washing my hands in the bathroom before lunch, I thought about her "patches" comment.

Here's an idea of the workday in the warehouse: besides those fourteen miles you walk, you also work in the most contained part of the warehouse, meaning that, besides your little corner, everywhere else is spacious, air conditioned, and breathable. The mezzanine, holding levels A, B, and C, are much closer together, like levels in an apartment building. The air doesn't move. Sunlight slightly filters in from a few covered windows on the roof. Warm bodies, warm machinery and warm air all make for an environment that most people find unbearably... warm. If you pace yourself to a certain point, you can give yourself a fairly good workout before the first break. If you're smart, you'll have already tallied off one of those three 1.5 liter water bottles for the day.

In short, you sweat a lot, and dehydration is a serious factor every hour.

As I looked at my flushed face and curling hair beneath my ballcap, I figured that I probably sweat a lot based on how I work. I knew that certain actions, like sitting down, were uncomfortable because of wet clothing, but I never really gave it thought until then. Out of curiosity, I turned around and looked at my back in the mirror.

My green shirt had large patches of sweat from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. The sweat had soaked through my belt and into the waistline of my cargos, discoloring about an inch downward from there.

Patches. Large ones. And you know what? I loved it.

I did this job halfheartedly the first time through and it made me expendable. When the second time came, I told myself that there was no way I was going through it without becoming an employee at the end. Show 'em what they're missing. Now that I'm an employee, the challenge is different, but still relevant: Show 'em what they've paid for. Now that I know what I can do, it drives me every day. Anybody can achieve. What can you do to exceed? I'm a competitive person and I'm not afraid to admit it. I push myself constantly because meeting a goal simply isn't good enough. People meeting a goal all the time is boring. What can you do to surpass that? What can you do to help people see that in themselves?

I came back to my lead later and told her, "You know, when you called me Patches earlier, I didn't realize you were talking about the sweat!" She laughed it off, and later, finding me again, called me "Sweaty McGee."

"No," I insisted. "Patches. I like Patches."

I went back and wrote it on the label of my tote. Abigail Veatch. "Patches." I wear it like a badge of honor. Oceans of sweat stand between us and our goals. It doesn't matter who we are or what we do. Some people show it more than others. Some people express it more than others. Sexy Matt is known to go to first break with most of his shirt completely matted with sweat. I brought it up one day when we were walking to break. "You know," I said, "I see how much you sweat before we get to break--"

"Oh, I know," he interrupted. "It's disgusting."

"Actually, I was going to tell you it's inspiring. I look at your shirt and I think to myself, I don't look like that at all. I need to work as hard as he does." Granted, Sexy Matt wears blue jeans to work too, but that's not the point. Sexy Matt inspires Patches. Patches moves, works, guzzles water bottles like there's no tomorrow and has breathing patterns like a pregnant lady at Lamaze classes. Patches isn't ashamed of this at all. As long as there's someone who's looking at the back of my shirt and thinking, "Man, I don't work nearly as hard as she does."

That's the point of a team, right? To inspire, encourage, and work together through adversity to achieve a goal, be it personal or corporate? Hopefully, it's more personal. I work hard because I love the physical labor. I love being reliable and relied on. I love getting paid to work out. I love to set a standard and push myself to surpass it. I love to inspire. I hope that's what I'm doing.

Patches.

Just as long as my nickname doesn't change to Bodysuit when I achieve a Sexy Matt level of greatness...