My Diary is a Slam Book: Further Evidence That 35 is the New 13

I got a job. But wait. Don't break out the champagne yet. For one, I don't really like champagne. It makes my throat itch as if I have an errant pubic hair stuck in the back of my throat and those corks are flat out dangerous. No, this is just a contract gig--3 days a week for 2 months. Kind of like the National Guards of Product Development without the threat of imminent deployment, i.e. a "real job."

Of course now that I'm staring down the barrel back of an Aeron chair I want to go back to napping on my couch just the slightest bit depressed. Go ahead--say it: you told me so! I should have enjoyed my time off while it lasted.

Oh, I know 3 days a week for 2 months is hardly a grind. But I went to school with the same kids from kidnergarten through high school and haven't had a first day of work since 2001. I suck at being the new kid. Invariably at lunchtime I find that my thermos has leaked chocolate milk all over my pb&j and I hide out in the bathroom with my feet pulled up on the can, shy and maybe just a little bit loose in the stool. What? You thought I'd hold back with that? See now why no one wants to nosh with the new girl?

I have my favorite pen--check. A full booklet of papier poudres--yup. Emergency Immodium and I'm wearing deoderant--got it. 8 hours until my first day is over and then I have to figure out an outfit for day numero dos.

Tell me the truth: would it look really bad if as the new freelancer I spent the afternoon cruising the internet to check in with all of you, my blog friends?

Missing you already,
The Girl Most Likely to Do It All Wrong (But Laugh At Herself Anyway)