Enter scene: There I stand at the inside of Trader Joes entry-way, various grocery products in brown paper bags after ONCE AGAIN DAMMIT forgetting my reusable stock pile of canvas bags in the back of my car. I put on my good samaritan penny pusher armor (sunglasses, check. Fake phone call, check. Mysterious randomly violent hacking cough, check) take a deep breath and proceed to walk through the glass sliding doors.
Once outside, they come at me with all they have:
“Help me save the mutant children!”
“Don’t you care about gay rights?”
“Did you know for a dollar a day for the rest of your life you personally can start a college fund for whales in the Ukraine?”
I hold up my hand freezing the rabid clipboard mongers around me, matrix style.
No, ok? No. I don’t want to help you. I don’t even want to know what is coming out of your mouth. I just want you to let me make it past you so that I can eat my kale chips in my car in peace where no one can judge me or accuse me of being cheap, or poor, or rude, or homophobic. Of which I am none. Minus poor. Which brings me back to my original point, that no, I don’t want to help you. Sorry. Except not really also because you are verbally assaulting me.
It is a peaceful pleasant rare experience that I enter a Trader Joes without being assaulted by various “do-good” philanthropists begging me to save the baby orcas in the Indian ocean and/or helping orphans in Somalia go to Ivy league schools while accusing me of being unhelpful, ungrateful and unAmerican. The worst part is when in a last ditch effort to get you to join their cult ahem, cause, they start going after the fact that you are alone and possibly need their guidance as your upcoming future boyfriend. How original. Please leave me alone with my poverty and singleness before I stab you with my unopened carton of almond milk.
Today has been one of those days.
It is Sunday, I have finished grocery shopping, I am still single, full of ambition, and apparently a rude asshole who won’t donate to the turban-less tribes of Saudia Arabia. Also, most notably, I have officially finished one week of work at my new job. I consider this to be a pretty stellar personal accomplishment. People have asked hey Meg, how’s it going? To which I (wittily, thank you) reply, ya know what? It’s going guys.
People have also asked Hey Meg, what exactly are you doing at this new gig? To which I reply, I am a spy. Then I walk away. I like to leave an air of mystery everywhere I go, so I’ve chosen this line as people rarely know how to respond to it and also, it gives me a chance to run away before we have to regurgitate the mundane activities of our days. Which I if possible, I usually choose not to do. And if I do, it’s much more interesting, like making my co-workers into characters in the storyline that is my life and me just the fly on the wall observing and quietly taking notes on the environment around me. See? Spy isn’t all that far off.
My first day of work, I ate my lunch in my car. I don’t share this to sound pathetic or socially inept or to liken myself to the work version of the new kid at school eating her school lunch in the 2nd floor ladies restroom, but rather because SENSORY OVERLOAD. And I honestly just wanted 45 minutes of peace and quiet in an environment that wasn’t completely new and unfamiliar surrounded by people I had known for less than 5 hours. Also, I was starving and I wanted to inhale my salad in the quiet comfort of the 3rd floor parking garage without having judgement passed on me by various co-workers who were unfamiliar with my eating patterns. I didn’t for one second feel bad for myself and you guys shouldn’t either. Being alone is occasionally nice. Furthermore, I want to let everyone know that friendship is probably right around the corner as well. I’m thinking week 2 were going to break through some serious social bubbles and really start connecting. I can feel it.
Beyond that? I’m trying to keep my head down and my nose clean. First impressions are everything and it’s been a little difficult to leave my sporadic-singing, wise-cracking, casual Friday self at the door. It’s funny how quickly I’ve forgotten that just 2 years ago, I’m sure I had to do the same thing. I didn’t start off at Conde Nast the way I ended, and I have to remind myself that relationships take time to develop and feeling a little uncomfortable in a new environment makes you learn how to adapt. But for now, I shove my feet into some uncomfortable heels, plaster a can-do attitude complete with a crest worthy smile on my face, and gosh darnit, I do my best. Which at the end of the day, is about all you can do.
I don’t know at what point this became an introspective diary-like entry, and for that I apologize. But I guess I just wanted to give everyone who cares a small status update and let you know that I’m still in it. I’m still on board with my decisions. I’m still a smiling, yes girl who wants nothing more than to do my job right, follow my arrow and go grocery shopping afterward while avoid the humanitarian charity paparazzi vermin so I can eat my kale chips in my safe place, which apparently through the writing of this blog, has been established as my car. Shoutout to orange Honda Elements errywhere. Shawties you da best.
Bring on week 2.