Tomorrow, I will officially become a member of the Quarter Century Club. I’ve been trying to surmise my feelings about this. I think shocked pretty much sums it up.
You see, I am not at all freaked out by being twenty-five. I don’t feel as if I’m getting old or that I’m not where I should be in my life. I don’t feel pressured to suddenly be making a certain amount of money or pop out some babies. I could care less about a few wrinkles or some grey hairs.
But I am totally, one thousand percent shocked. Where the hell have the last twenty-five years of my life gone?! I mean, seriously, I have been sitting at my desk all day, freaking out every time I look at the clock, only to discover that five minutes, not an hour, have passed by. Yet I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how years have just whipped by!
My parents threw a birthday soiree on Sunday in celebration. I managed to drag Madonna, Westchester, H.F.T. and Hansel along. I promised free food, alcohol, and highly inappropriate comments from Grandpa Al. I get the feeling they were not disappointed.
Throughout the day, my parents called me Penny. Because even though I’m turning twenty-five, they still call me by my nickname from childhood. I figure since it’s stuck, and it being the momentous occasion of me entering a new survey bracket, I’ll share with you just how Penny came to be.
It has to do with pooping.
First Stage, in which a seed is planted: Being in Caldor as my mom is buying some t-shirts for my older brother. I am still not potty trained, but I fall in love with some My Little Pony underwear. I grab the three-pack off the shelf and hug it to my chest.
“You want those?” my mom asked.
“Yes!”
“Well, then you have to learn to use the big girl bathroom. Can you do that?” she continued.
“Yes!”
“Okay, then you can have them,” She concluded.
“Yes!”
I became obsessed with my underwear, and maybe more importantly, making sure I told my mom every time I went to the bathroom. How else could I be sure she’d keep buying me big girl underwear?
“MOM! I poopied in the big girl bowl!” came from my lungs for several months. My brother delighted in making fun of me every time I made this announcement.
“Why do you have to tell the whole world you used the bathroom?” he asked as he laughed at me.
Second Stage, in which the seed takes root and an idea begins to grow: Sitting on the toilet in the bathroom, singing to my imaginary friend, Ed. He lived in the vent in the ceiling.
I didn’t really enjoy having to sing to Ed, but it was the only way he’d keep me company while I was in there. And since I was only in there for the underwear, I decided if that’s what he needed to stick around, so be it.
My mom, who was in the kitchen cooking dinner but insisted I keep the door open, god forbid I fall in and she have to save me or something, heard me jibber jabbering away.
“You okay in here?” she asked as she stuck her head in the door way.
“Yes! I’m just singing to Ed,” I said. “Who?” my mom asked.
“Ed! He likes me to sing and then he stays,” I said.
“What?” she asked, still totally confused.
“Ed wants me to sing to him!” Why was she not getting this? Simple logic lady: you want someone to hang out with you, you do what they say.
“Who is Ed?” she kept bothering me.
“Mom! I can’t talk to you, I have to SING!”
Of course, my brother soon learned of my singing-while-pooping habit. The wheels were turning, I’m sure.
Third Stage, in which the nickname flowers: My brother promised me that by eating just one penny, I’d be able to make more come out of my butt whenever I wanted. Being too little to understand the value of each coin, I just assumed the penny, being gold and different from all the rest, was worth the most. The ability to make a whole bunch of them? I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass me by!
My dad found me later that afternoon, kneeling next to the toilet, staring intently into the water as I hummed a tune to Ed.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.
“Waiting for more pennies. It’s still just one,” I said.
He stood over me and looked in. “How’d that get in there?!” he asked, probably grossed out at the gerbil size turd floating in the water with a penny stuck to it.
“From my butt. But there’s supposed to be more,” I answered.
“Does your mother know about this?” he asked me.
“I dunno. Can she poop pennies?!” I was suddenly excited. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry after all. If mom could poop out pennies, well, I could just take hers.
Suddenly, my brother comes dancing in the bathroom, chanting in the tune of the ditty I was just humming to Ed:
Penny Penny Poop a Denny, has a boyfriend, his names Eddie, Penny Penny Poop a Denny, has a boyfriend, his names Eddie!!
And thus, a nickname was born. Shortened to Penny by most family members, but sometimes, used in full: Penny Penny Poop a Denny. With a boyfriend, of course, named Eddie.
Lifes Lesson # 37: I may be getting older according to my birth records, but I’m holding steady to Penny. Maybe because I feel, all these years later, like I've still got a part of that wacky child inside. I kind of hope that when I make it to the Third Quarter Century Club, she’s still bouncing around.
Life Lesson #36: Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. - George Eliot
I was caught sobbing in Lord and Taylor’s jewelry department on Saturday. Good thing there is a cosmetics counter a bracelet-toss away. I quickly stole a tissue box from a heavily made-up gentleman giving some old lady a frightening ‘make-over’ and made a mad dash from the penetrating, unsympathetic eyes of fellow shoppers and booked it onto the anonymous city streets.
“Excuse me, miss. May I ask where you get your hair done?” some guy blurted out while managing to successfully block me from sidestepping him.
“I’m sorry, not right now,” I mumbled, desperately trying to swerve to his right.
“This will only take a moment! I’m a representative of –“ Mr. Observant continued, trying to shove a clipboard with some local salon’s price list under my nose.
“No thank you,” I said louder, attempting my escape route to the left.
“Well, if you just give me a moment –“
“Seriously, dude, LOOK AT ME. Does it look like I want to stand here and chat about my hair? My dog just died, you dick,” I blurted out.
Woops.
With sadness I tell you all that my fat, smelly, slightly idiotic, four-legged bundle of fur moved on to doggy heaven this weekend. I hope he gets countless hours of naptime, endless amounts of doggy booty, and, for the sake of all the other pooches waiting around patiently for their owners to show up, an odorless scent of gas streaming out of his butt.
Obviously, I’m heartbroken. I managed to convince myself that he was healthy and fine. As long as my mom kept making him his special diet meals and we kept him from getting too excited or overheated, then he’d last forever, right? I know. Delusional. But that’s how I am, especially with dogs.
Come to think of it, I’m kind of that way with most pets I’ve had.
The first time we went to Long Beach Island when I was in second grade, I begged my parents to let my vacation souvenir be a hermit crab. They finally caved; probably thinking it’ll teach me a thing or two about responsibility and, more importantly, keep me quiet during the three hour car ride home.
I named my hermit crab Michelangelo, after my favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle who was oh-so-witty and could take anyone on with his nunchakus. He had a pretty sick terrarium, equipped with a faux log and some pink gravel. I fed him everyday and made sure to let him run around on my bedroom floor while I did my homework. I even wrote a fully illustrated book about him for a class project, titled Michelangelo: The Hermit Crab.
In his biography, he meets a lady crab who wears a pillbox hat and white gloves, they get married three days after their first date, honeymoon in New York City, where they meet a lady who looks strangely like a hooker, and eventually move back to the ocean where they have a bunch of baby hermit crabs.
In reality, Michelangelo acquired roommates over the years, sometimes up to three at a time, changed shells, and even got a bigger, blue terrarium that had a jungle scene background (which probably confused the crap out of the poor little guy).
One horrible night, I came back from dance class to find his lifeless, shriveled up legs hanging out of his crab shell. My initial, hopeful thought was that it was not actually him, but rather the skin they leave behind when they outgrow their shells and need to move into larger ones. But a quick inspection of what should have been his new, protective covering revealed a still-hollow shell. Clearly, Michelangelo had peaced-out.
Actually, I have to be honest with you. The lifeless body that was ceremoniously put into the creek in my backyard was most likely not my beloved Michelangelo. You see, I had gotten so many of this silly little pet over the years that changed from shell to shell, who the hell knows which one was which by the end of their lives? I just naively assumed that my first was also my last, and thus the final of the hermit crabs received the most proper of burials.
After I had properly mourned the loss of Michelangelo, which included a tear-filled poem recited as his body was taken away to the sewer across the street, I was ready for a new pet. Enter Whitey.
I had gone to the pet store with my dad to get some treats for Lea, our crazy Chow Chow. I walked out with an albino frog with freakish red eyes and almost transparent webs. I guess I was just too young to realize how un-P.C. the name Whitey was. I thought it was highly comical and clever on my part. My parents gave up on convincing me it was inappropriate when I threatened to leave him in their bed at night.
Whitey was magical. He would float around all day eating fish food flakes and giving me high-fives through the aquarium wall. I could have sworn that when I held him, he shook with delight. And nothing made my brothers and I laugh more than when a bluish-brown stream of poop would get stuck coming out of his pin-size butt hole.
Eventually, I killed Whitey.
You see, he was strictly a vegetarian. The only things he should (and really, could) eat were fish food and lettuce. But one day, I gave him a cricket. We had them all over the house during the spring, and I thought, how cool would it be to watch him eat a live bug?
Well, I’ll tell you, it was really cool. I mean, he attacked that bug like Paris on a photo-op. Then, it got stuck in his throat for like an hour, as he kept gulping it and gulping it ‘til it was finally in his fleshy little belly. He immediately boycotted his flakes and leaves for the clearly more enticing crickets. And so, like a drug peddler, I continuously supplied Whitey with the poison that would kill his tiny little see-through body.
Whitey’s aquarium was actually Michelangelo’s old terrarium, just filled with water. Because he was only supposed to eat the most basic of foods, he didn’t need a filter system. Every four days, my brother would hold Whitey for me while I rinsed out the gravel and put in fresh water.
When the only thing coming out of Whitey’s anus was the waste of vegetables, this was not an issue. Once live animals started working their way through his digestive track, things started turning sour. His body couldn’t properly digest this foreign food, nor could I clean his home fast enough.
In the end, we think his own toxic poop did him in. I woke up one morning to find him floating wrong-side-up on the surface of putrid, colored water. I was crushed. While I was stupid enough to feed him crickets, I was not so stupid that I couldn’t figure out that my own desire to recreate a scene from Animal Planet in my bedroom is ultimately what killed the poor bastard.
Whitey received his royal treatment via the standard backyard burial. His stiff little legs got bent up into a white box that I buried under a tree, right by the edge of the creek where his former tenant had left me not too long before.
You can bet your ass I was crying then, just like Saturday afternoon, as I stumbled to make a silly little cross out of twigs and those twisty-ties they stick on the end of a loaf of bread.
Life Lesson # 36: I may not get as emotional at weddings as you'd like, or lose my composure during Extreme Home Makeover, but the death of a pet makes me awfully sad. Brutus was ridiculous and smelly and way too fat for his own good, but I loved him just the same. And while it’s terribly sad to lose him, or any pet for that matter, I wouldn’t ever want to miss out on all the memories my random mishmash of silly animals has brought me. So this week, I thank all my pets for making me more creative, letting me learn how to care for someone beyond myself, and for keeping my feet warm when it’s cold outside.
Life Lesson #35: Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Pin Ball Wizard in a miracle cure!
I feel that more often than not, I focus on the negative stuff that happens in my life. Probably because it’s a lot funnier and much more interesting than all the good things that come my way. I mean honestly, would you rather hear about my shirt popping open while bartending Saturday night or the twenty bucks I found in my back pocket? Exactly. (Incidentally, both these things happened.)
But I had a revelation the other day: lately, things have been going very well for me. To not acknowledge these major, as well as minor, milestones could result in a karmic take-back. While I’m fuzzy on if there’s a Big Man up there, I do believe there is a bit of destiny at play in the world. To not pay thanks could mean a swift retraction of it all. And while I also believe that for every upswing, there’s got to be a down, I hope that taking a moment to recognize all the positives will keep them coming a little while longer.
And so, my list of miracles, big and small, that I’m grateful for:
Miracle 1: I got an apartment on my own that, pending no sudden financial upsets or job loss, I can afford. Granted it’s not the biggest, newest, or even cleanest of places, but I love it nonetheless. And while I’m still struggling with the faint odor of cat, I feel as if I’ve managed to make it seem a little more like ‘home’ everyday. And for a dog lover like me, there is one of the best dog parks right outside my front door. So any time I need a quick pick-me-up, I can go watch pooches frantically sniff each other’s asses.
Miracle 2: I found a laundry place three blocks from my apartment that is not only super cheap, but insanely fast as well. And they’re open until 11:30 pm! Call me bratty, but I never do my laundry in the city. Wel, that’s a lie. I did it once. Two loads took five hours and wound up costing me twenty bucks. I figure the time I waste sitting there, plus the cost of doing it myself, buying detergents and all that nonsense, just doesn’t make sense. Especially when you can usually find a place within a five block radius that will do it at a reasonable cost. So on Saturday, I dropped off eighteen pounds of laundry at two o’clock. Four hours and thirteen dollars later, it was ready. That is just awesome.
Miracle 3: I discovered a place for brunch called The Cloister Café. As the name would indicate, it’s made to look like The Cloisters Museum in Fort Tyron Park on the UWS. The museum is known for its gardens, tapestries and other Middle Ages knickknacks. The inside of this café has stained glass windows, seats like pews, and a giant suit of armor in the corner that I want Hansel to ‘borrow’ when a bunch of us go on our Medieval Times field trip. We sat outside, which is even better than the inside: there are silly fountains with goldfish, gargoyles built into the walls, ivy growing everywhere, and European waitresses who could care less if you were in any kind of rush. But the best part? The food. Brunch includes a fruit cup, a glass of orange juice, a giant coffee or tea, your choice of the usual breakfast and/or lunch fare, with a side of the best potatoes I’ve tasted in a long time, and an English muffin instead of toast. I mean, it was delicious. The whole meal? Twelve bucks.
Miracle 4: I have made it to week three of my new job. I still don’t get half of what I do and mess up those dumb little things I wonder how the hell I did wrong two seconds after completion, but they haven’t kicked me out on my ass just yet. And while I have moments of oh my god my boss hates me, I don’t believe his feelings towards me are that extreme. I think he thinks I’m a little stupid (for example, he watched me struggle to push open a door that is clearly marked PULL) but, fingers crossed, not much worse than that.
Miracle 5: I caught a dodgeball. This is pretty huge for me. A few weeks ago, when the only personal experience I had with the game was sporadically pre-college, I had visions of sportsman excellence. The first game quickly proved me wrong. But the second game? Well, I actually caught one of those bad boys (and a regulation size ball at that). Rumor has it from the people who witnessed this miraculous feat, my eyes were closed. Now that is pretty damn amazing, hu?
Miracle 6: The walk from my apartment to the subway in the morning is painless, all things considered. I have to get up early (for me, at least) and pull myself together. Nice clothes. Makeup. That sort of thing. When I finally make it outside, I’ve got a good eight to ten minute walk ahead of me. Now, this used to be hellish when I lived uptown. Probably because the 86th Street subway is one of the most annoying places during rush hour. There are just so many people who live in that area that have to get to work that it’s almost like being in a pin ball machine that someone throw a handful of extra balls into. A recent blessing for me: no one downtown seems to have to get up in the mornings. Who knows what they do, but they sure aren’t rushing to make it to their desks by 8:30. I get to walk on basically empty streets. And that truly is a blessing when you realize you’ve put your skirt on backwards in the mad dash to get to your desk before the boss.
Miracle 7: Friday night, I got to sit fourth row, courtside, at the Knicks preseason game. The face value for one of these folding chairs? Three hundred dollars plus twenty-five for taxes. I got to sit my beer-drinking, pretzel-chowing ass there for free, courtesy of Madonna’s and Goose’s friend from college. Needless to say, these were some pretty sweet seats that I could never otherwise be able to afford. I have to admit, I was most excited to watch the dancers, who did not disappoint. Madonna even scored a free shirt that they shot into the crowd. Now that is a great night.
Life Lesson # 35: I’m beginning to understand that really enjoying life means I have to stop and acknowledge it all. Good and bad. Ying and yang. Cheech and Chong. Whatever. I don’t want to be one of those people that only focus on all the stupidity and nonsense. Because that’s just a big ole’ waste of time.
I'll start doing that when the pendulum swings back down and hits me upside the head.
Life Lesson #34: Mijn naam is Penny. Ik ben van New York. Wil u naakte Twister met mij spelen?
I find that Ikea, like naked Twister, is in theory a great idea.
In reality, you end up with a sweaty, tangled mess of too many bodies, awkward moments, and painful bruises.
I just moved back into the city on Friday evening. The opportunity to sublet a true one bedroom (as in a separate room that a bed and dresser can actually fit in) in the lower east side fell into my lap. There was no way I could let this pass me by. After living in Manhattan, post-college, in three different apartments, I’m familiar with the nonsense this city tries to pass off as livable.
My all time favorite: A three bedroom that was more like three closets that loft beds were built into. Ok, fine. Welcome to Manhattan, right? Except these loft frames weren’t made flush against the sides of the closet walls, but rather built into the corners. So these tiny ‘beds’ were uneven (scalene, if you will) triangles. I think that only midgets with asymmetrical limbs could sleep comfortably. And the only mattress you could even try to make work in the space would be from those sweet car beds for little kids, after you lobbed off an entire angle. To top it off, the place was directly across the street from a strip club. Scores or the likes? Ok, I could deal. But these dancers looked like the fabled, deformed Olsen sister that was locked up in the basement for twenty years. And these were just the ladies that were allowed outside to share a cigarette in daylight. Who knows what the others, forbidden to be seen under anything other than a fuzzy, red 40-watt light bulb, looked like?
Needless to say, my new place has a rectangular shaped bed and no gnarly strippers (that I’m aware of) in sight. So I took it.
Saturday consisted of The Cleanup. Which took the WHOLE day. This is what happens when the former tenant is a weird lady who has a very fat cat and very few cleaning skills. Coupled with the fact that I’m kind of a neat freak and recruited Hansel to help, whom I’m convinced is a little OCD when you get him started, and you get a Mission for Hygienic Excellence that can only be achieved through hours of hard elbow grease. By the time evening crept up, I was feeling like the place was becoming more of a home.
And so Sunday was my day to fill my new, clean space. I had to go shopping.
Now, I’ve been to Ikea twice before. So I’m no virgin to seeking “affordable solutions for better living.” I am well aware of what I’m getting myself into on the way to the yellow and blue, not nearly air conditioned enough black hole some crazy Swede decided to conjure up smack in the middle of smelly Elizabeth, New Jersey.
Yet the thought of skipping down the yellow colored, squiggly aisles, the idea of finding great stuff, the hope of making an apartment look totally pulled together and livable, draws me back. The well organized website and phonebook-size catalog, promising miniature pencils and Swedish meatballs if I go to the actual store, are too much for me to resist.
As I walked in the largest revolving door in history that almost took out an entire family and one bewildered looking old lady, I gave myself twenty minutes before I’d start remembering all the reasons why I hated the place.
It only took half that amount of time before I almost lost my sanity.
First, the sheer number of people is enough to give anyone agida. There are children everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Hiding under sofa cushions; popping out of cabinets; using the shopping carts as ramming devices. You step without looking; you’ve just crushed the fingers of a four year-old trying to shimmy his way under a coffee table. Add to that all the grandparents of the world. I guess the parents bring them along in hopes they’ll watch said little ones while they redecorate their entire bedroom for $421. Well, old people, you suck at your one task. Really, the only thing you’ve demonstrated being good at in Ikea is getting in the way of anyone with a shopping cart. For that, I applaud you.
Once I’m able to mentally adjust to the crowds around me and ignore the hot, thick air suffocating me, I try to figure out where the hell everything is I need. I’m overwhelmed with how difficult this is. Probably because the company can’t name anything in a way that is remotely intelligent to me.
Turns out the founder of Ikea, who is dyslexic, decided to name the products by association, which was easier for him to remember. Screw the rest of us, who just happen to be paying customers. And even though the founder is Swedish, he decided to play this word game with Danish, Finnish and Norwegian terms, as well as his native tongue. Great.
Confused? Yea, well imagine me yesterday at about 5:30, floating in a sea of bathroom accessories named after Scandinavian lakes, rivers and bays. Or trying to find some bed linens that run the gamut of terms for music, chemistry, weights, seasons and measures. ‘Cause that makes sense.
As I stood, surrounded by a mound of toilet seat covers, trying to figure out where the hand towels could be, I figured I gave off an air of total confusion and frustration. Apparently not.
“Does this elastic stay? I don’t want this moving around when I’m sitting on it,” some extremely thin, slightly deranged looking woman asked me as she waved a fuzzy, pink toilet seat cover in my face.
“Um, I don’t know?”
“Well, it looks like it might not. Is it soft? I mean, if you’re sitting on it,” she continued.
“Um, I really don’t know?”
Do I look like an Ikea employee? Not that I think there is anything that would make someone look like they did, unless they were wearing, oh, I don’t know, maybe the company uniform that every actual worker around me had on. Which I did not. But why else would this woman ask a total stranger if her bony ass was going to be well cushioned when she sat on her toilet? Isn’t she kind of embarrassed to ask me that? People are just so weird. For someone as accident prone as me, Ikea also runs the risk of being a giant ass-kicking machine. I can’t reach for anything without ten boxes falling on my head. I walk to the left, someone happens to shoot their cart to the right. Things that look deceivingly heavy wind up being three ounces. And vice versa. I mean, I woke up this morning with more knots in my back then ever before, which I’m chalking up to the huge flower pot I brought home (note I had to move about half a dozen before even finding one that wasn’t cracked or chipped, probably from some child who decided to use it as a bowling ball).
Even beyond the walls of the Ikea warehouse, danger looms. The parking lot is walk-at-your-own-risk territory. Finally made it three flights up with the most cumbersome of boxes? Well, you still have to assemble your new Spanis and Tromso. Try not to get any paper cuts, muscle kinks, or broken nails. And you always run the risk of having your stuff fall apart at any near time in the future.
Life Lesson #34: Although I came out unscathed, minus the small bruise on my thigh, and in the end, did manage to get some cool stuff for my new digs, I have learned that I need to make enough money in life to not have to resort to cardboard furniture. I’m not trying to be a spoiled brat or anything. I just really don’t think I can handle that place again.
I’d much rather face the quick, relatively painless humiliation of falling on my bare ass in a game of naked Twister.
Life Lesson #33: The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round, Round and Round, Round and Round..
My first steps into my new boss's office almost landed me in his arms. No joke.
This near death (at least by mortification) experience occurred by way of a stuck heel. As I went to step forward and formally shake my employer’s hand, the floor immediately jumped up to embarrass the crap out of me. Somehow the heel of my shoe got wedged between the molding of the doorframe and the wooden floor. What was supposed to be a nice, firm handshake turned into a crazy I’m-about-to-fall! move that ended in him staring at me like I just took the short bus to work.
“Wow, you alright there?”
“Yea, my heel is stuck in the floor though…” I mumbled, trying to yank my leg up without losing complete control.
“Well, I guess that’s as far as you’re coming into my office!” he laughed, clearly trying to lessen my humiliation.
“You’d think I just got shocked from an electric fence or something. Well, anyway, hello and I look forward to working for you,” I managed.
Please note that this man is not only my new boss but also the boss of everyone else in the company: he’s the CEO.
It’s just my luck, really, that I’d almost fall flat on my face the first day of a new job. Oh yea, I’m finally employed again. No more retirement for me. Although, if I don’t watch myself to carefully, I might lose it pretty quick. The HR department might get rid of me for being a liability or something.
I’m going to blame this episode on the fact that I had to get up at 6:15 to make it there. No joke. For those of you unfamiliar, I haven’t had a normal day job in over three months now. Which means, I’ve been getting up nowhere near such an obscenely early hour. I’m more accustomed to stumbling in only shortly before that. When noon hits, I’ve probably only been up for an hour or so.
Today, I already had seven waking hours behind me by the time my lunch break came around. I felt like I might simply pass out right on the Avenue of the Americas.
Come to think of it, a number of variables could have contributed to this morning’s incident:
1. As already noted, I had gotten up before the sun was even shining fully. Enough said. 2. I was wearing Business Casual Attire. I figure this messed me with a bit. At my last job, I could wear sweatpants and a bandana if I wanted. Which I did. Often. So putting on nice pants and a fancy shirt, along with some relatively high heels, kind of disrupted my entire equilibrium. My non-cleavage baring top probably didn’t help either.
3. I took Metro North, the 6 and the V to get to my new office. I totally forgot how hellish commuting could be. Especially subway transfers at a freakishly large number of feet below street level. Hot. Smelly. Slightly scary. And extremely annoying. If the stank, 95 degree, probably over one hundred years old air isn’t enough to make you light headed, the bum sitting next to you will definitely put you over the edge.
4. The Two-Day Later Hangover. Some of you may be familiar with this phenomenon in which Monday morning, you’re still hurting from Saturday evening. Way too much free wine and vodka at a wedding will do that to me. So even though I was Sober Sally all of Sunday, I woke up today still a little fuzzy ‘round the edges.
5. I think I suffered from something that felt eerily like back-to-school jitters. Do you remember that slightly nauseating, is anyone going to like me, I hope my outfit is cool and I really hope someone will sit next to me during lunch feeling you got in the pit of your stomach as you rode the bus on your first day of fourth grade? If not, then you’re way cooler than I’ll ever be and I’m jealous.
6. I’m not what you’d call graceful or poised. I trip up stairs and my ankles get wobbly for no reason at all. I often feel that no matter how much I try to pull myself together, I’m always about to fall apart at the seams. So a heel stuck in the ground isn’t that out of the ordinary for me. Getting through the day not stumbling would be more peculiar.
7. I had just spent two hours having my one-on-one orientation session with this chick from human resources. Sure, she was nice and all, and I’m really glad I’ll get health coverage in ninety days, but listening about high risk deductibles and zero tolerance for sexual harassment is painful. It would make most people’s eyes glaze over. Mine included.
8. I had to pee big time. Not something new, of course, but I remember thinking how badly I had to go right before going up to my boss, and well, that was probably the last coherent thought I had before catapulting forward, foot trapped in the ground.
Luckily, the rest of the day went by without too many mishaps. I did drop a call that I clearly had no idea how to transfer. Oh, and I might have spilled a little water on my keyboard. But I figure that there’s got to be some people out there who’ve had worst First Days then me, right? Life Lesson #33: So I had a minor incident at work. Already. My boss probably thinks I’m a little, well, “slow” shall we say? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever been one to give off a good first (or even second) impression.
But I figure that by starting off on the wrong, or rather, wedged foot, I can only get better. I hope we can all look back on my first morning at work and chuckle. And while you all might be shaking your heads from second hand embarrassment, I’m just going to laugh this one off. Because I’m sure I’ve got bigger calamities coming at me in the near future. Trust me on this one. If there’s one thing I’ve consistently got going for me, it’s my ability to make an ass of myself.
Life Lesson #33: So I had a minor incident at work. Already. My boss probably thinks I’m a little, well, “slow” shall we say? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever been one to give off a good first (or even second) impression.