It's a gradual process, this letting go of old friends. There are days when it hurts, and there are days when I don't feel anything about it all. My high school friends have drifted away over the years. I was never the easiest friend to have. I tended towards moodiness, and I liked to get my way. In fact, high school was probably the worst time to be friends with me. I'm much better at friendship now, most of the time.
After graduation, I was the one sending out the emails, harassing everyone to get together at Christmas, or to celebrate a birthday. When I got married and started yet another graduate program, I stopped sending out those emails, finally admitting to myself that I no longer wanted to be the one responsible for making sure my friends saw each other.
In June, I realized it had been almost a year since I talked to my high school best friend, and I tried to make plans to visit her. Her schedule didn't allow the visit, and I took this as the "she's just not that into you" moment. I'll still write on Facebook walls and attend weddings. I'll send Christmas cards. What I won't do is devote time and energy to planning coffee dates or potluck evenings that never happen.
When I stopped to really think about this, I realized that my life is full of friends who know me now, as the more mature person who doesn't always have to get my way (though it's still nice when I do). I have surrounded myself with people who don't share memories of me as a truly difficult person. Not that my high school friends demanded it, but I felt that I still needed to make amends for being annoying, petulant and needy and that I needed to prove I had changed. With others, who met me in college or beyond, I share happier memories. Letting go of old friends hurts, but no longer being constantly reminded of my awkward years has its gifts.
Showing posts with label when my face turns bright red. Show all posts
Showing posts with label when my face turns bright red. Show all posts
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Monday, June 22, 2009
It's a Good Idea...Wedding Edition
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Thou Shalt Not Stress
This should have been one of the original commandments. I don't know how it got left out. Seriously.
I have a tendency to convince myself that I can learn how not to stress, but to me and others who share my genes, this just means a happy little trip down De Nial. Sure, I can do everything. No, really, leave it to me. I can do it.
But you know what? I do whatever it is, and I do it well.
Three days later, I crash.
I fall into a little puddle of Sarah-mess, and I realize that I'm exhausted and totally spent and have completely failed to give myself any time off...
And then I get mad at WG, because, really, what else is there to do about the situation?
There are times when he's contributed to the stress (because, ladies, let's be honest, there's not a man in the world who is NEVER at fault...), and there are others when he's simply THERE and gets the brunt of my stress melt down.
By Sunday, after taking the CSET on Saturday (a grueling five-hour test that involves things I will never have to know in order to teach kindergarten), working on Sunday afternoon and stressing the whole weekend over the location of our wedding rehearsal dinner, I was done for. I was melty and tired and fussy, and did I mention exhausted?
WG and I started talking about some little thing that was annoying me, and it turned into a slightly bigger thing...and I ended up complaining that I feel like I'm always the one who has STUFF to do, STUFF that means we don't get to spend as much time together as I'd like, STUFF that means I need a nap when I get home, thus cutting into what little time we have.
He looked at me and told me that he finds it sexy that I'm so busy, that I keep myself active and involved in the world.
And I admitted that I was tired and needed to just sit and not accomplish anything for a while.
Then he went and made me dinner and we watched 30 Rock.
Thou Shalt Not Stress...the 11th Commandment.
I have a tendency to convince myself that I can learn how not to stress, but to me and others who share my genes, this just means a happy little trip down De Nial. Sure, I can do everything. No, really, leave it to me. I can do it.
But you know what? I do whatever it is, and I do it well.
Three days later, I crash.
I fall into a little puddle of Sarah-mess, and I realize that I'm exhausted and totally spent and have completely failed to give myself any time off...
And then I get mad at WG, because, really, what else is there to do about the situation?
There are times when he's contributed to the stress (because, ladies, let's be honest, there's not a man in the world who is NEVER at fault...), and there are others when he's simply THERE and gets the brunt of my stress melt down.
By Sunday, after taking the CSET on Saturday (a grueling five-hour test that involves things I will never have to know in order to teach kindergarten), working on Sunday afternoon and stressing the whole weekend over the location of our wedding rehearsal dinner, I was done for. I was melty and tired and fussy, and did I mention exhausted?
WG and I started talking about some little thing that was annoying me, and it turned into a slightly bigger thing...and I ended up complaining that I feel like I'm always the one who has STUFF to do, STUFF that means we don't get to spend as much time together as I'd like, STUFF that means I need a nap when I get home, thus cutting into what little time we have.
He looked at me and told me that he finds it sexy that I'm so busy, that I keep myself active and involved in the world.
And I admitted that I was tired and needed to just sit and not accomplish anything for a while.
Then he went and made me dinner and we watched 30 Rock.
Thou Shalt Not Stress...the 11th Commandment.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Clamming Up and Calming Down
I'm on a constant quest to calm down. That's just a fact. Another fact is that I HAVE calmed down, significantly, in fact, over the past couple of years. I still get worked up, and I still run around like a crazy chicken when things start get a little bit stressful. Overall, though, I feel ready to move onto the next project.
and that would be Clamming Up.
I talk smack about my co-workers. I could justify it to you all 100 different kinds of ways, but I'll limit it to one: Some people exhaust me, and their various antics require that I vent a little bit. Luckily (or unluckily), several other co-workers agree that the venting sessions are sometimes necessary.
Today, however, I called a halt. On Tuesday, three of us were standing in a huddle, sharing horror stories about "Dwight Schrute" (that's really the only name I can use to describe this person, because this co-worker really does belong on The Office). Over the next couple of nights, as I fell asleep, I was riddled with guilt. Three of us. Standing in public. Complaining about a co-worker. That's just not right.
And so, it's over. We're going to work as a team to not smack talk against each other and try our hardest to avoid what one co-worker faced with a previous employer: group therapy.
and that would be Clamming Up.
I talk smack about my co-workers. I could justify it to you all 100 different kinds of ways, but I'll limit it to one: Some people exhaust me, and their various antics require that I vent a little bit. Luckily (or unluckily), several other co-workers agree that the venting sessions are sometimes necessary.
Today, however, I called a halt. On Tuesday, three of us were standing in a huddle, sharing horror stories about "Dwight Schrute" (that's really the only name I can use to describe this person, because this co-worker really does belong on The Office). Over the next couple of nights, as I fell asleep, I was riddled with guilt. Three of us. Standing in public. Complaining about a co-worker. That's just not right.
And so, it's over. We're going to work as a team to not smack talk against each other and try our hardest to avoid what one co-worker faced with a previous employer: group therapy.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
I Don't Like You. Don't Talk to Me.
I am not always the nicest person at work, and it's not the fault of the customers. Not really. Sometimes it is.
It's their fault when they've been borderline harassing me for two years and then decide to tell my supervisor that I've been "rude," when all I've been doing is resisting their creepy advances.
Tuesday was not a particularly splendid day for me. It was the first day of a week that won't end until this coming Tuesday; my ankle (sprained during our fabulous Memorial Day Camping Trip and re-sprained as Irene and I walked into what turned out to be the most-depressing movie since Schindler's List) hurt so badly that I felt sick to my stomach; the library had just opened.
The first few customers were courteous, and I happily answered their questions. I even ran out to re-align the front doors.
Then the creep entered. I won't go into all the details, but suffice it to say, he's overly familiar with a few of the younger women on staff, and we all act a bit differently. There are older men who flirt in that almost Southern way, calling all women "baby" and somehow managing not to offend anyone. This is not one of those men.
Anyway, I never want to talk to this man, and I always treat him the same, with a somewhat cold but polite demeanor. I don't encourage his conversation, but I smile and nod when he says hello.
That's not enough for him. He spoke with my supervisor for upwards of 20 minutes about my "rude" behavior.
The next morning, my two supervisors pulled me into an office and briefed me on some "techniques" I might try to make sure that he's "satisfied" with the level of attention he receives but won't perceive it as responding positively to his quest for closer communication.
These techniques:
1) Make eye contact, smile, but not too broadly, then look away.
2) When asked questions about my personal life, say "I don't talk about my personal life at work" and then giggle.
You think I'm kidding about the second one? No. They both demonstrated how I should say it.
It didn't help my situation that both of my supervisors - attractive in their own ways but not in the group that this man prefers to approach - said that they had dealt with this man before and "all of the encounters have been positive."
Let's repeat those techniques, just for good measure:
1) Make eye contact, smile, but not too broadly, then look away.
2) When asked questions about my personal life, say "I don't talk about my personal life at work" and then giggle.
I am now required by my employer to giggle at smarmy men.
I have a master's degree, and I am now required by my employer to giggle at smarmy men.
It's their fault when they've been borderline harassing me for two years and then decide to tell my supervisor that I've been "rude," when all I've been doing is resisting their creepy advances.
Tuesday was not a particularly splendid day for me. It was the first day of a week that won't end until this coming Tuesday; my ankle (sprained during our fabulous Memorial Day Camping Trip and re-sprained as Irene and I walked into what turned out to be the most-depressing movie since Schindler's List) hurt so badly that I felt sick to my stomach; the library had just opened.
The first few customers were courteous, and I happily answered their questions. I even ran out to re-align the front doors.
Then the creep entered. I won't go into all the details, but suffice it to say, he's overly familiar with a few of the younger women on staff, and we all act a bit differently. There are older men who flirt in that almost Southern way, calling all women "baby" and somehow managing not to offend anyone. This is not one of those men.
Anyway, I never want to talk to this man, and I always treat him the same, with a somewhat cold but polite demeanor. I don't encourage his conversation, but I smile and nod when he says hello.
That's not enough for him. He spoke with my supervisor for upwards of 20 minutes about my "rude" behavior.
The next morning, my two supervisors pulled me into an office and briefed me on some "techniques" I might try to make sure that he's "satisfied" with the level of attention he receives but won't perceive it as responding positively to his quest for closer communication.
These techniques:
1) Make eye contact, smile, but not too broadly, then look away.
2) When asked questions about my personal life, say "I don't talk about my personal life at work" and then giggle.
You think I'm kidding about the second one? No. They both demonstrated how I should say it.
It didn't help my situation that both of my supervisors - attractive in their own ways but not in the group that this man prefers to approach - said that they had dealt with this man before and "all of the encounters have been positive."
Let's repeat those techniques, just for good measure:
1) Make eye contact, smile, but not too broadly, then look away.
2) When asked questions about my personal life, say "I don't talk about my personal life at work" and then giggle.
I am now required by my employer to giggle at smarmy men.
I have a master's degree, and I am now required by my employer to giggle at smarmy men.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Now I Know
I lay awake during those last few precious moments before I had to rush into the workday. WG was sound asleep beside me, and, unbidden, thoughts of how I acted around my crushes when I was in college rose in my mind. I thought about whether or not I was different around WG when we first got together.
With several years of maturity on my side, I had certainly learned how to control my romantic sensibilities by the time I started dating WG. It's also true, however, that WG liked me in return, so I never felt that sense of desperate attraction fill my body (though I certainly had other emotional issues to deal with).
Trying to keep myself from dozing back to sleep (I'd already turned off the alarm), I let thoughts one particular crush fill my mind. I hadn't thought of him in years - my freshman year crush. But, think of him, I did. I thought of how I felt so strongly about him and clasped on to every bit of anything he did that encouraged me to believe he felt the same. By the end of the first semester, I had gotten it into my head that I needed to make a move. So, I invited him to a holiday party at the sorority house. I thought this was my big chance to move from friend to girlfriend.
I didn't live-in at the sorority yet and had dressed in my sparkley (yes, sparkley) teal dress in my dorm and hiked up to the house in my high-heels. By the time I reached the house, my curls had turned to loose waves, and the dress had started to droop just a little.
The Crush arrived soon after I did, and we awkwardly talked. I gave him a tour of the quiet upstairs of the house. Music pumped through the intercom line, and I stood in silence when the song switched to "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer. Oh, how I wanted him to kiss me in that moment, standing alone on the third floor, far from the crowd of sorority girls and their dates. How afraid I was that he would, that he wouldn't.
He didn't.
Though I think he must have known that I wanted him to just lean over and kiss me, even if just on the cheek.
Ten years later, it finally came to me. Do you know why he didn't kiss me? Because he didn't like me. Two years after reading He's Just Not That Into You, I am finally ready to retroactively apply it. He came to this party, because he was my friend. I stood in front of him in my limp (but still pretty) dress, my hair starting to reject the hairspray and begin its usual fly-away routine, and was not liked by him.
As I turned my attention back to the matter at hand, to pulling myself out of bed and heading to work, I had one last thought, "What must The Crush have thought?" How did he feel standing there with his friend in her withering finery, looking helplessly up at him, asking him for far more than he could ever give?
Ten years later, I can see things from his perspective.
Nothing was the same after that night. No more casual phone calls to go to a movie when class got canceled. No more promise of Giants games. No more walks and talks around Berkeley. For the first time, this morning, I regretted that I'd had such a crush on him and had lost his friendship as a result.
I don't know if we would have spent so much time together if I hadn't had that crush on him, seeing as I craved that closeness, but I do know that we no longer had any time together after I stood silently in the hall, willing him to kiss me.
I gently shook WG and told him I was leaving. He reached up with his arms, pulled me into his embrace, kissed me and said, "I love you." I let the past pass away, told WG I loved him right back and went on to my current life.
With several years of maturity on my side, I had certainly learned how to control my romantic sensibilities by the time I started dating WG. It's also true, however, that WG liked me in return, so I never felt that sense of desperate attraction fill my body (though I certainly had other emotional issues to deal with).
Trying to keep myself from dozing back to sleep (I'd already turned off the alarm), I let thoughts one particular crush fill my mind. I hadn't thought of him in years - my freshman year crush. But, think of him, I did. I thought of how I felt so strongly about him and clasped on to every bit of anything he did that encouraged me to believe he felt the same. By the end of the first semester, I had gotten it into my head that I needed to make a move. So, I invited him to a holiday party at the sorority house. I thought this was my big chance to move from friend to girlfriend.
I didn't live-in at the sorority yet and had dressed in my sparkley (yes, sparkley) teal dress in my dorm and hiked up to the house in my high-heels. By the time I reached the house, my curls had turned to loose waves, and the dress had started to droop just a little.
The Crush arrived soon after I did, and we awkwardly talked. I gave him a tour of the quiet upstairs of the house. Music pumped through the intercom line, and I stood in silence when the song switched to "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer. Oh, how I wanted him to kiss me in that moment, standing alone on the third floor, far from the crowd of sorority girls and their dates. How afraid I was that he would, that he wouldn't.
He didn't.
Though I think he must have known that I wanted him to just lean over and kiss me, even if just on the cheek.
Ten years later, it finally came to me. Do you know why he didn't kiss me? Because he didn't like me. Two years after reading He's Just Not That Into You, I am finally ready to retroactively apply it. He came to this party, because he was my friend. I stood in front of him in my limp (but still pretty) dress, my hair starting to reject the hairspray and begin its usual fly-away routine, and was not liked by him.
As I turned my attention back to the matter at hand, to pulling myself out of bed and heading to work, I had one last thought, "What must The Crush have thought?" How did he feel standing there with his friend in her withering finery, looking helplessly up at him, asking him for far more than he could ever give?
Ten years later, I can see things from his perspective.
Nothing was the same after that night. No more casual phone calls to go to a movie when class got canceled. No more promise of Giants games. No more walks and talks around Berkeley. For the first time, this morning, I regretted that I'd had such a crush on him and had lost his friendship as a result.
I don't know if we would have spent so much time together if I hadn't had that crush on him, seeing as I craved that closeness, but I do know that we no longer had any time together after I stood silently in the hall, willing him to kiss me.
I gently shook WG and told him I was leaving. He reached up with his arms, pulled me into his embrace, kissed me and said, "I love you." I let the past pass away, told WG I loved him right back and went on to my current life.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
A Case of the Wednesdays That Spilled into Thursday
My mother can't stand Tuesdays.
Baz Luhurmann would agree with her:
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that
never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm
on some idle Tuesday.
Mondays give you the benefit of moaning and groaning about it being Monday or braggin' on your weekend. Wednesays are midway through the week. Thursday is so close to Friday, it might as well BE Friday. And Friday's Friday.
But Tuesday? What's Tuesday?
You have to acknowledge my mom's point, and she made it long before Baz every did.
Me? I have come to loathe Wednesdays.
I don't so much hate all of Wednesday. It's Wednesday evening that bothers me.
Since WG and I started our photography class in January, I've gotten a case of the Wednesdays nearly every week. What's a case of the Wednesdays?
Well, let me tell you, and be forewarned, it mostly involves hormones and my own special brand of crazy.
On Wednesdays, WG and I have dinner together in the school's parking lot. We get about 1/2 an hour to eat and talk. Half an hour.
I require nearly an hour to get used to the company of someone who knows me well. Crazy? Uh huh. No doubt about it. But it's true.
So, in half an hour, I hardly have time to register who this person is beside me and why on earth he wants answers to questions like, "Why were you so secretive about the fact that your work didn't reimburse you for the hotel room when we went to Seattle for a library conference in January of 2007?" Huh?! It's a real question, though not worded quite so...oddly. I can hardly get past, "Here's your sandwich, dude," let alone answer difficult questions about something I can't remember that happened over a year ago.
So, the half an hour thing? Not working for me.
Then, we go to class for a couple of hours or so (when we are released from class depends on the whim of our otherwise informative instructor). By the time class gets out, I've just gotten used to WG again, and it's time to kiss goodnight and go our separate ways.
Usually, by the time I've driven back to my apartment, am greeted by a loud orange kitty and have changed into workout clothes or pajamas, I'm often over the feeling of unfulfilled anticipation.
This week was one of the bad ones, though, and it didn't help that I finished reading Marley and Me and cried over a dog I didn't particularly like, but still, a family dog died. What else could I do but cry?
That crying led to other reasons to cry, as a crying jag almost always does, and as Dane Cook so poignantly explains.
I awoke confused as to why my eyes felt heavy and sandy and my chest felt sore. Then I remembered that I'd been crying when I fell asleep. I don't think I've cried myself to sleep in about eight years.
This week, that feeling spilled into Thursday, and I arrived at work not ready to face the public, let alone answer their questions as I walked from my car to the employee entrance (seriously, if that's how annoying it feels to have ONE person nagging me as I walk out in the open air, my already low desire to ever be a celebrity has completely tanked).
I soon realized I didn't have my trusty, pink water bottle, then went upstairs to buy a (no!) plastic disposable bottle of water, only to have several of my dollars soundly rejected by the soda machine, and that made me want to slam doors and stomp down stairs, but I refrained.
And that's what happens when a case of the Wednesdays spills over into Thursday: Soda machines reject me, and I find myself wondering if there's a way I could sometimes just call in crazy and not go to work.
Baz Luhurmann would agree with her:
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that
never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm
on some idle Tuesday.
Mondays give you the benefit of moaning and groaning about it being Monday or braggin' on your weekend. Wednesays are midway through the week. Thursday is so close to Friday, it might as well BE Friday. And Friday's Friday.
But Tuesday? What's Tuesday?
You have to acknowledge my mom's point, and she made it long before Baz every did.
Me? I have come to loathe Wednesdays.
I don't so much hate all of Wednesday. It's Wednesday evening that bothers me.
Since WG and I started our photography class in January, I've gotten a case of the Wednesdays nearly every week. What's a case of the Wednesdays?
Well, let me tell you, and be forewarned, it mostly involves hormones and my own special brand of crazy.
On Wednesdays, WG and I have dinner together in the school's parking lot. We get about 1/2 an hour to eat and talk. Half an hour.
I require nearly an hour to get used to the company of someone who knows me well. Crazy? Uh huh. No doubt about it. But it's true.
So, in half an hour, I hardly have time to register who this person is beside me and why on earth he wants answers to questions like, "Why were you so secretive about the fact that your work didn't reimburse you for the hotel room when we went to Seattle for a library conference in January of 2007?" Huh?! It's a real question, though not worded quite so...oddly. I can hardly get past, "Here's your sandwich, dude," let alone answer difficult questions about something I can't remember that happened over a year ago.
So, the half an hour thing? Not working for me.
Then, we go to class for a couple of hours or so (when we are released from class depends on the whim of our otherwise informative instructor). By the time class gets out, I've just gotten used to WG again, and it's time to kiss goodnight and go our separate ways.
Usually, by the time I've driven back to my apartment, am greeted by a loud orange kitty and have changed into workout clothes or pajamas, I'm often over the feeling of unfulfilled anticipation.
This week was one of the bad ones, though, and it didn't help that I finished reading Marley and Me and cried over a dog I didn't particularly like, but still, a family dog died. What else could I do but cry?
That crying led to other reasons to cry, as a crying jag almost always does, and as Dane Cook so poignantly explains.
I awoke confused as to why my eyes felt heavy and sandy and my chest felt sore. Then I remembered that I'd been crying when I fell asleep. I don't think I've cried myself to sleep in about eight years.
This week, that feeling spilled into Thursday, and I arrived at work not ready to face the public, let alone answer their questions as I walked from my car to the employee entrance (seriously, if that's how annoying it feels to have ONE person nagging me as I walk out in the open air, my already low desire to ever be a celebrity has completely tanked).
I soon realized I didn't have my trusty, pink water bottle, then went upstairs to buy a (no!) plastic disposable bottle of water, only to have several of my dollars soundly rejected by the soda machine, and that made me want to slam doors and stomp down stairs, but I refrained.
And that's what happens when a case of the Wednesdays spills over into Thursday: Soda machines reject me, and I find myself wondering if there's a way I could sometimes just call in crazy and not go to work.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Jitter Bug
After a happy morning singing songs, reading books and blowing bubbles with a group of toddlers, I returned to my regularly scheduled work.
As I went to make my usual turn into the parking lot, I looked for oncoming traffic. I started to go. Stopped. Looked again and saw a motorcycle cop coming right at me. I remained stopped. The cop did not. Instead, he immediately flipped a u-turn and "lit me up." I pulled into the lot, but I couldn't get into a space, because that would have required backing up, and considering the cop was riding my bumper, that wasn't going to happen unless I felt like running over his chopper. The copper's chopper. Heh.
He strides over to my car window all Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell and asks if I have a license. Note that he didn't say, "License and registration." He asked me if I have a drivers' license. Anyway, he asks me if I know why he pulled me over.
Yes, because of the turn. I wouldn't normally say that I know way, but in this case, it didn't seem like it would help me to be coy about the whole situation.
He then proceeds to lecture me. I did say, "But I stopped," and he responded, as only Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell could, "I almost became your hood ornament."
That's not true for two reasons. 1) I STOPPED and 2) I was going a maximum of 2 mph before I stopped. No harm would have come to the precious copper chopper.
Now, he eventually let me pull forward into a parking space, but not before both the library director and the assistant director drove out of the lot.
So, the fact that he gave me only a "formal warning," is somewhat dampened by the fact that two major players in the future of my career saw me with the butt-end of my car hanging out of a parking space with a motorcycle cop behind me. Fun.
I started bawling after he left, but I got myself together, freshened my makeup, and went into the library head held high.
But I do have no intention of purposely visiting the executive offices anytime soon.
And just because the day hadn't made me nervous enough, on my way out of town to join Mr. WG for our forty minutes of quality time before our photography class, four teen boys decided to beat up on each other with big wooden sticks. Right in front of my car.
Where was Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell when I needed him?
As I went to make my usual turn into the parking lot, I looked for oncoming traffic. I started to go. Stopped. Looked again and saw a motorcycle cop coming right at me. I remained stopped. The cop did not. Instead, he immediately flipped a u-turn and "lit me up." I pulled into the lot, but I couldn't get into a space, because that would have required backing up, and considering the cop was riding my bumper, that wasn't going to happen unless I felt like running over his chopper. The copper's chopper. Heh.
He strides over to my car window all Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell and asks if I have a license. Note that he didn't say, "License and registration." He asked me if I have a drivers' license. Anyway, he asks me if I know why he pulled me over.
Yes, because of the turn. I wouldn't normally say that I know way, but in this case, it didn't seem like it would help me to be coy about the whole situation.
He then proceeds to lecture me. I did say, "But I stopped," and he responded, as only Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell could, "I almost became your hood ornament."
That's not true for two reasons. 1) I STOPPED and 2) I was going a maximum of 2 mph before I stopped. No harm would have come to the precious copper chopper.
Now, he eventually let me pull forward into a parking space, but not before both the library director and the assistant director drove out of the lot.
So, the fact that he gave me only a "formal warning," is somewhat dampened by the fact that two major players in the future of my career saw me with the butt-end of my car hanging out of a parking space with a motorcycle cop behind me. Fun.
I started bawling after he left, but I got myself together, freshened my makeup, and went into the library head held high.
But I do have no intention of purposely visiting the executive offices anytime soon.
And just because the day hadn't made me nervous enough, on my way out of town to join Mr. WG for our forty minutes of quality time before our photography class, four teen boys decided to beat up on each other with big wooden sticks. Right in front of my car.
Where was Mr. Tight Pants I'm a Cop and Can Make Your Life Hell when I needed him?
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