Helium balloons -- gotta love 'em

This morning at work I walked into the break room to find the ceiling covered with helium balloons of assorted colors. I had been summoned there for a one-hour presentation on something that bore absolutely no relevance to my job duties, so instead of paying attention to the presenter I stared up at the balloons. Since childhood I've always liked balloons, helium balloons especially. There's something about the bright colors and squeaky sounds I think, or maybe it's the association with parties that makes me like them. Balloon animals intrigue me to a degree, but plain old round balloons are my balloon of choice. I prefer the rubbery ones over the metallic Mylar balloons. Call me a simpleton, but a bright red inflated balloon just makes me smile.

For Valentine's Day, members of some fund-raising committee walked around soliciting us to purchase a helium-filled heart shaped Mylar balloon for a fellow coworker. I declined, but someone apparently thought enough of me to cough up the dollar. I came to work that day and found the balloon in my cube. It was on a red ribbon weighted down by a gum-filled sucker. I kept the balloon all of Valentine's Day and then took it home to let it go and watch it float up into the clouds. Almost a week later, our building is still filled with these balloons, though now many of them are partially deflated and sad. While I like bright new balloons, wilting balloons are just depressing like dying flowers or a sad clown. I want to run down the rows of cubicles with scissors and snip the ribbons that hold the balloons hostage. I would gather the ribbons in my hand and lead the balloons outside. I work right by the interstate and I can just picture the looks on hundreds of people's faces as they watch red heart-shaped balloons float up into the air over I-85. Think of the diversion to Atlanta traffic this would create and how many smiles it would evoke!

Once when I was a third grader at Lawrenceville Elementary, every student was given a helium-filled balloon to which we were to attach a hand-written note giving our first name and the name of our teacher. Whoever found the note was asked to write back announcing that they had recovered the balloon. We all let our balloons go roughly at the same time. I held on to mine for a brief moment longer so I could more easily distinguish it from the hundreds of other balloons and follow its path into the sky. For the next couple weeks, students walked by a bulletin board in the front hall to see if someone had responded to their particular note. Someone wrote from as far away as South Carolina. My note never got a response, and I sometimes pictured my balloon coming down in a field or in the middle of the woods.

At the meeting today, if we asked the presenter a question we were awarded with a stress ball or some other office bawble to either display in our cubes or, in my case, discretely discard into the trash when no one was looking. Afterward when the crowd was filing out I grabbed the ribbon of one of the balloons. I'm sure these weren't meant for the taking, but no one was going to miss one. I marched it to my cube and tore off a sheet from my notepad and wrote Dear Recipient, Kindly email me at cocktailswithkevin@hotmail.com letting me know you found this note. Thanks, Kevin. I promptly took it outside, let it go, and watched it sail over the milieu of motorists wondering if I'd ever get a response.