Working seven days a week has been so fun. Fun like getting a blood test. I'm noticing that I say things that make me (sound) very old. Have I had a conversation with you yet about how my feet always hurt? Last night as I was falling asleep I thought of the old lunch lady at my elementary school, of the taupe coloured orthotics she used to don. Now, I sort of envy those cushy, faintly medical looking things.
My grey hair count is at 2, which is about an orange on the pandemic scale. One was excusable, but two? When I found the second it wasn't one of those sad but hilarious moments that I then go and tell my coworkers about, I literally stood in my bathroom while my youth flashed before my eyes.
No one will love you, Carmen. No one.
Though, I must say, there is light amongst the darkness. The other night at work, (WHY DO I WORK NIGHTS AGAIN?!) we were swamped, everyone was running around frantically trying to do nine things at once, my angelic coworker turned to me and said, "Hey, you want a break? I've got a burger in the back, it's all yours."
I just sort of looked at her, dumbfounded. She could have said she had some spare dry almonds, or maybe one of those shitty granola bars that's not even covered in chocolate, but a burger?! I sat in a storage closet atop a spare folded area carpet, a coat rack dangling above my head. With weight off my feet and something greasy in my belly I had never been happier.
1 comment:
ha, i have been finding greys since the tender age of 12! i've lost count, but they are coming in nicely, silver fox nicely. nice seeing you yesterday. take it easy okay?
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