I’m almost through my first week at my new job. I should probably stop calling it a job now. I’m told it’s the first step in a “career” but that just makes me think of ill fitting blazers.
It’s going well. I really like the work, but I miss my old crew and have found myself a gender minority in the new locale. The guys are really nice, and bless, they’re trying hard to include me in the 3 o’clock tea ritual (so masculine!) but I have little to contribute to their conversations about lifting and cars. I scroll through instagram gasping at the latest celeb headlines (yes, from instagram) and have nobody to make fun of celeb baby names with. It’s a sad, y’all.
On my first day I got lost in the cubicle maze a few times, forgot several people’s names and walked into a cubicle wall. I awkwardly interrupted a conversation between two men who are probably my father’s age when they were having a debate over what SAMCRO meant.
“Hi I’m Libby, and it’s Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, Redwood Originals. I’m new.”
So far the best part of my day has been listening to the small talk in the morning. The aforementioned dad crowd is my favourite. “Did you know what a ‘cleaner’ is on those murder type shows?” followed by a full recount of the plot of Pulp Fiction when the one dad said he didn’t know who Quentin Tarantino was. I half expected Quentin to just magically appear and shout, “DJANGO!” and then violently kill him.
Nothing like a bloodbath at 8am.
THE BEST part so far has been when I went to another branch to conduct a training session and tried making a tea in the office kitchenette. I was standing with a co-worker, when all of a sudden a woman said to me out of nowhere, “I just started reading Fifty Shades of Grey!”
I replied with a “Oh, wow” and then left. Whenever people tell me they’ve read that Twilight fan fiction I just feel as though we’ve crossed into territory best saved for lovers.
Today I had my first sesh with l’ therapist Silverfox since October. I feel it’s best to get a good vent out early in the year. I had a small panic attack and talked about nonsensically about how I still fear teen pregnancy, my own mortality and am angered intensely by vanity license plates, but he says we’re making progress.
He told me to lay off the David Foster Wallace whenever I’m feeling blue or stressed, and to instead read something uplifting or entertaining. He suggested a Hunger Games reprieve from my vortex that is Wallace, but I refuse. How dare you suggest I read Hunger Games. How dare you!
I digress. I need to get to bed, but I just called to say I love you, and I miss bl.ogging and chatting with you.
I leave you now with some Wallace because the man knew my soul.