I ate way too much yesterday (ravioli, eggplant parm, at least half a loaf of bread, a piece of cheesecake, a huge cupcake AND an ice cream sundae) and I slept on a sofa that was six inches too short to be comfortable. I got a ride to the train station in a pickup truck where I sat on a pile of nails and precariously perched my feet on a heap of power drills and circular saws. My left shoulder hurts something mean and I don’t even want to hazard a guess why, but I forgot to put on deodorant so I don’t plan on raising my arms much today anyway.
So, I drink a lot at work. Water, I mean, but if margaritas were part of the lunch plan, I’d have a terrific buzz right now. Anyway, I end up needing a potty break every hour or so. Not a big deal, right? I’m bored anyway, so getting up frequently gives me something to do. Except the bathrooms on my floor are located on the Private Equity side, and those guys must do even less work than me because every time I walk by they stare me down. I secretly suspect they’re timing me in there, maybe keeping tally marks. One of the guys was described to me as “the Mayor of Nice Hedge Fund,” and that means he probably pays attention to things like this. So I started staggering my trips: every other pee break I walk down a floor to the bathrooms there. I’m tipping a bit high on the crazy scale, I know, but I don’t want to be labeled as “That Girl Who Pees Eight Times a Day.”
Seriously, I’m a mess. My job is basically to look pretty and answer the phone, and I'm failing miserably at 50% of that today. But it’s Thursday, just one tiny day away from the weekend, so let’s say our prayers of thanks to the Gods of Four-Day Work Weeks for smiling down on us.
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