Blisters make “sexy” a little more difficult.
It is hard to feel like the sexy career gal I am, when I’m limping no more than 50 yards after leaving my condo. (Also difficult to feel sexy on day two of my period, wondering “Will my bathroom key work today?”) Yesterday on my way home from the office, I stopped at Nordstrom Rack to buy some emergency knee highs and other silly foot coverings. I also grabbed the last minimizer from Olga they had in my size. I’ve never bought an Olga bra before, the name stops me. But after I did and after one day in it, I was a convert from Cacique to Olga.
By the time I went to bed last night I had a blister the size of a quarter on the inside of each heel. I put a little neosporin on each one and said, “they’ll be fine in the morning.” At least I had the common sense not to wear the Kenneth Cole pumps today, but my “comfortable” Franco Sarto.
Ouch. ouch. pain. Searing pain. “Adonai, I’m grateful for having my legs.” Fuck. Right. Ouch. Left. “God, really, I’m grateful for being able to walk.” I was grateful that there was a Walgreens at the Lake stop of the red line. I limped into the basement of the drug store to buy a pair of sandels to get me to the office. There was no way I could make it the three blocks to my new building, not with these blisters and in these shoes.
I got caught at the elevator in my ghetto plastic men’s sandles. (I passed on the hot pink pair of flip-flops for Corona.) The Admin I ran into promised that I could wear the replacement sandles all day, nobody would notice my feet. NOT TRUE. I notice everyone elses shoes (mainly because I’m still judging business casual.) Also, when I met one of the VPs today, she announced, “I don’t normally wear tennis shoes, but I am flying today.” I am not the only one who cares about shoes.
The day happens. I do very little. I do get my intranet log-in and am told by a few department heads, “We won’t give you access to that until you are a real employee.” The other Admin’s invited me to have lunch with them on 65. I assumed we would go to a restaurant on the 65th floor. Nope, we went to Restaurant 65–a little chinese place on Michigan Ave. Lucky for me, the Admin from that morning suggested I change into my walking shoes. I was worried about looking dorky, but then we started the hike to lunch and I thanked God again.
After lunch I met with my new boss. She wanted to know a little about me–non resume things. Writer, comic, chemist, blah, blah, blah. I tried to be witty and convincing, but was shy and coughed a lot. Call me little miss Vague. I was honest–I don’t know what I want from this job, other than stability. I don’t know what your industry is and I can’t proofread. I can compile edits and I’m a whiz at multi-whatever it is called. Tasking, multi tasking.
That afternoon I sat in my chair some more. Had some tea. Found out the reason my key doesn’t work in the bathroom door on my floor. Why? (Why did I end up using the bathroom at Fields yesterday?) Cause it isn’t locked. The damn door wasn’t locked this morning when I held it, last night when I fled to use the restroom at Field’s… nope. The key works on floors where the bathroom IS locked, but ours is wild and free to use.
At the end of the day, I put my silly sandles on and shut down my computer at 5PM. At 5:01, Cubicle Next Door says to Admin behind me, “You gonna stay here all night?” Five really is closing time at this shop.
That I like.