A Working Girl’s Guide to…Hmmmm?

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Today I started a new job.  Exciting and wonderful indeed. While skipping down the yellow brick road towards more money, paid vacation and full benefits is wonderful, indeed magical at times, it is not without its share of flying monkeys, dark forests, and painfully awkward stumbles along the way. Day one was cringe-worthy; so buckle y’alls seat belts cause it’s a bumpy ride.

Unfortunately, while my brain is very excited about my new position, my hormones clearly feel otherwise. All of the stress, anxiety, and nervous energy leading to up to my first day decided to congregate in the DEAD CENTER of my forehead erupting into a giant zit. In my life, I have never seen a bulls-eye so large.  And I thought high school was bad.  Yosemite Sam could hit that sucker from 3 miles away…drunk. Volcanic, and humiliating.

No amount of makeup can encrust the monster.  Believe me, I tried.  I feel all day as though they are staring at my third eyeball. The very last thing a working girl wants when meeting a MILLION new people is to be the horribly awkward girl who looks like she hasn’t finished puberty. Nope. No. Absolutely not.

Furthermore, no one warns me a maniacal foot rebellion will begin to occur about 20 minutes into my very first work day. My feet, abnormally small and alien-like to begin with, are spoiled and secretly accustomed to the lifestyle of working from home, AKA never EVER wearing shoes ever unless forced. Therefore, after wearing my (deceivingly comfortable) heels for all of 2.5 seconds, they begin to execute a mutiny in the worst possible way. Blisters abounded on my big toes, which suddenly feel cramped in the solitary confinement of such a small and dark space. My heels shed their outer layer of skin like, like a fat rattle snake on Red Bull, with gashes screaming out for the immediate demise of shoes; all shoes. My muscles jump in on the game, cramping and seizing in the worst possible ways. The bottoms of my feet, not to be left out, are soon covered in a thin coat of sweat, inducing both a slippery sliding sensation and suction-like noises, making all of the above problems even worse.  Walking (the most basic of human skills) for the moment, is essentially impossible. “Look, it’s the new girl with the bulls-eye zit and the Bambi feet, tottering all over the office.  Notice the grimace of concentration, pain, bewilderment and horror on her face.”  Freaking BRILLIANT!

But friends, the struggle the previous two problems created pale in comparison to my third act. My new job as a receptionist includes greeting high-powered and important clients, showing them to the conference room, and asking if they would like (pause)…a beverage. A waitress in a blazer basically. Even without the great foot rebellion of 2015, I should also intone, I’m a horribly spastic creature.  I’m a walking, talking recipe for disaster.  If chewing gum were thrown in the mix, I might be classified as a category 3 hurricane. However, after some basic training, I execute the maneuver several times without incident and start to feel pretty good about myself. Nay, cocky even.

Oh how the mighty fall. I show two delightful and incredibly important French clients into our biggest board room and dutifully offer a beverage.  They both request coffee. Like a new born colt, I strut to the kitchen.  With deft hand I pour the hot coffee then hobble march back to the board room like I own the damn place.

My excessive hubris apparently inspires a higher power to smite me on the spot.  As I go to merely PLACE THE COFFEE on the table, I spill it (or “spilt it” as we say back home). Everywhere. Like a typhoon, waves of expensive dark roast coffee expand across the table covering, custom branded legal pads, and buttery leather chairs.  There must be a rip tide or something because somehow I too am covered.  For the higher power’s sake, why couldn’t they have ordered espresso?  Humiliated and blushing profusely, there is a silver lining.  Because now the rest of my face perfectly matches the shade of bulls-eye zit.  Nearly crying from all three eyeballs, I apologize and limp away in search of a Sham Wow or a large beach towel.  What I REALLY want to do is sprint out the door, change my name, move to Siberia, and never return.

The moral of the story is threefold. One, ALWAYS have bangs to cover evil mountain-sized zits. Two, put your feet through rigorous and intense training (hot coals preferred) before attempting to wear heels for extended periods of time. And three, if you are going to spill coffee, your guts or anything else for that matter, try to do it in the company of those who brought us Roast, Toast and Fries as they will be incredibly kind and gracious about it.

Now on to day two!  Thank you sir, may have another!

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