“I hate spunk” — Part I
I started a new job on Monday. It’s arguably the best gig I’ve ever had (I jumped ship from what was then “the best gig I’d ever had”, so take from that what you will.) In my less jaded days, I would refer to this as “a keeper.”
I’m at that phase where you’re being trained, but not fast enough, and everyone keeps peaking into your office (!) and simultaneously introducing themselves and hating you for being in what they consider your honeymoon period. But the truth is that you’re really embarrassed at not being able to remember where the bathroom is, or the receptionists’ names (40 year old women don’t like being addressed as “you guys”, I’m learning) and that you’re useless in general. It’s so awkward. When I was at home watching “New York Undercover” reruns and cashing in at the Coinstar waiting for this job to start, I was like “Man, I just want to be there. I don’t care what I do.” But when it turns out that all you’re trained to do is check Facebook and YouTube even older Fox series…well…
The other thing is that I have to dress up for this job. Now, as you know, I am a big man. I also sweat a lot. (I’m not as gross as I sound, I swear. Think a younger James Earl Jones and less Fat Albert.) This means that I need an industrial drum of starch in my shirts to make dry cleaning even worth it. Seriously…I’ve got more wrinkles than the cast of ”Cocoon” by 10am unless I am starched within an inch of my life. But the stoopid dry cleaner barely starched my shirts and I look a hot mess by lunch time. I’m going to rip him a new one this weekend, but until then I have to try to sit straight up in my chair so as not to look messy.
Oh, good. It’s lunch time.
