The Lunch Break From Hell

So guess what everybody? I'm employed.

 Did you hear me? I'm EMPLOYED. All of my insane malaise has come to an end!

Wait, this is me - no it hasn't. But it's certainly lessening, or at least changing. So what is my job? Well, I'm not really going to talk about it specifically, because upon being hired I signed roughly one million agreements that I would not be blogging, tweeting, or otherwise talking about the company. And I feel that getting fired after two days is sort of tacky, so I'm going to follow the rule. All you need to know is that it's an office job, I'm doing a lot of typing and filing, work certainly beneath someone of such incredible creative genius as I.

I'm joking of course, but I actually did have a moment, immediately after being hired, where I looked around and thought something to the effect of, "What am I doing here? I'm a creative, funny, person who should be doing something grand... not wasting my uniquely original voice typing away in some office", and then I felt like Hannah Horvath and promptly kicked myself for being such an asshole.* So, maybe I'm not being fulfilled creatively at this point, but was I really being creatively fulfilled toiling away into madness alone in my apartment? Methinks not. And also - it's just a job for now. I know it's not my career, it's not a permanent-life-forever decision... despite every choice I've ever made feeling permanent and life-altering, they usually aren't. I mean, if in ten years I'm still working in the office AND I don't have any new Twitter followers, then we can all collectively agree I turned out to be a failure. So, until then... I'm just a good little worker bee, and I'm genuinely grateful and relieved to be employed.

*I will say that the longer I'm out of college, the more "Girls" goes from being hilarious to way-too-real and very chilling.

But it's still just Alex dressed up as a worker bee, which means I'm still going to have ridiculous, embarrassing things happen, because that's my life story. The things range from small to colossal. I was hired on the spot on Thursday, and sat around for a good hour or so because no one had anything for me to do. A guy who I'll name "Tom" was in charge of babysitting me. Essentially, I sat next to him while he worked at his station. Finally, after a solid forty-five minutes of doing nothing, he asked me to put a stack of papers somewhere. He was youngish (under 30?) so, trying to bond with my brand-new co-worker and eager to do any sort of task, I said, "You got it, Macgruber." He turned to me, and dead serious, said, "That's not even close to my name." Um. Um. He'd never even heard of Macgruber. He thought I was just guessing at his name... and that I decided to take a shot in the dark and go with Macgruber? Anyway, I sputtered, "oh, no - it's an SNL sketch". "Saturday Night Live?" he asked, as if SNL could stand for anything else. I said yes, and he said, "Oh, I don't do that". Uh oh. If the people in the office don't know or enjoy pop culture, how are we ever going to get along? I suddenly remembered that I do not belong in an office by any stretch of the imagination.

So Friday, my first full day of work, was when the incident happened. Something very embarrassing that only happened two days ago, which means it's VERY BIG OF ME THAT I'M ALREADY FINDING THE HUMOR IN IT, DON'T YOU AGREE?!

Where was I? So my first day was plodding along, the hours ticking away, and I was starting to get really hungry. But, being the pushover people-pleaser that I am, I didn't want to ask for my lunch break on the first day because somehow that felt rude to me? Welcome to my brain. Anyway, it was nearly two, and after finishing a spreadsheet, I handed it to my supervisor and said, "Would it be okay if I took lunch now?" She said sure, and I went down the elevator to the ground floor of the building where I sat in the commissary with a banana, yogurt, and juice box that I had pulled from the office kitchen (I didn't steal them, they're for the employees) and checked the last several hours of news and updates from Twitter. This was odd for me, since usually I check Twitter all day long - but now I had hours worth of backlog, and trying to get through it all and open and read all the articles I wanted to in a half hour was more difficult than I'd imagined. As my break was ending, I was still reading stuff on my phone. I got in the elevator, hit floor 35, waited until the elevator stopped, and exited all without looking up from my phone. When I peeled my eyes from the screen, I realized I was actually at floor 33. Whoops. I turned right back around and hit the button for the elevator and waited. And waited. This is silly, I thought, waiting around to go up two floors, how lazy am I? I can use the stairs. So I wandered around until I found door a stairwell, which I entered. I walked up two flights to floor 35 and tried the door. It was locked. Well, that's just annoying, I thought, and went back down to 33 and tried the door. It wouldn't open.

It wouldn't open. Now my nerves started to kick in... trying not to freak out, I went down another floor and tried the door. No dice. I was trying like hell to keep full-on panic at bay... and I was semi-succeeding. What am I going to do? Oh my god, I'm going to have to call my office on my FIRST DAY of work and tell them that I'm LOCKED IN THE STAIRWELL? I felt full-body embarrassment seize me at just the thought. No, no, no - that should be my last resort ONLY. Not wanting to go there, I realized my other, equally unpleasant option: I was going to have to walk down all the stairs. Maybe the doors on the upper floors with offices wouldn't open, but there's no way the ground floor would be locked. So, resigning myself, I began making my way down the stairs. LOTS of stairs. Keep in mind that I was dressed in a button-up shirt with a sweater over it AND wearing my coat, which I had brought with me on break. Down and down and down the stairs I went, getting sweaty and gross fast.* Finally I got to the bottom... and saw, "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, ALARM WILL SOUND".

*This is a reference probably nobody will get, but I felt like I was in a real-life version of that part in Final Fantasy VII where you go up all those flights of stairs in the Shin-Ra building. #nerdalert

Now was the time. The time for me to begin FULL-ON PANICKING. My heart was racing, and not because I had just been forced to actually exercise. No no no no no.... serious panic set in, not just because of the ridiculous embarrassment of the situation and the thought of having to call the office to send someone to get me out, but actually more so because of the sudden intense wave of claustrophobia that hit me like a ton of bricks.* I felt trapped, stuck in this endless, gray, concrete stairwell with NO WAY OUT. No way out, no way out... "WHY IS THIS HERE?" I screamed inside my head, "WHAT'S THE POINT OF HAVING STAIRS YOU CAN ONLY ENTER BUT NEVER LEAVE? IT MAKES NO SENSE!" Shirking logical thinking in lieu of full hysteria, I began running up the stairs, pounding on the doors at every floor. No answer, no answer... AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Finally, at the 16th floor, I heard movement. I waited, hoping against hope that this was my salvation. The door slowly opened, and a completely nonplussed forty-something man was looking at me. I'm sure I looked like a sweaty, lunatic child; I was suddenly very acutely aware of the fact that I was in no way, shape, or form a grown-up of any kind. I walked through, and realized the door had opened DIRECTLY INTO AN OFFICE. Not a hallway - an office. Others were at their cubicles working. "Thank you so much", I whispered quieter than I think I've ever spoken, both because people were working and but also because my embarrassment was genuinely affecting my body, and I found that my vocal chords could just barely produce actual speech. "I got locked in the stairwell." "Well that's not good." He said bemusedly.

*I'm not overly claustrophobic - I'm fine in elevators, but if the elevator got stuck, then I'd probably start to get nervous. 

And with that, I briskly walked through the office to the exit, and took the elevator back up to the proper floor, where I entered my actual place of work. Maybe no one noticed, but as is often the case, I felt like shame was radiating so strongly from me that everyone noticed... not to mention the fact that I was a SWEATY MESS, both due to the panic and the running up and down stairs; only after I had sat at my station for a little bit, calmed down and resumed working, did I notice my thighs were burning. Exercise, man.

You guys, I'm pretty sure I'm fifteen. I'm fifteen, right?

Mr. Smith Goes to Wall-shington

Well, I hope y'all had a good Thanksgiving. I'm doing okay, just literally laying in pain, recovering from "my week of eating", as I've been oh-so playfully referring to this disgusting week of shame. Seriously, I've been majorly taking advantage of the fact that unlike the fridge at my apartment, my parents' fridge is always stuffed full of food. Delicious food that will make me fat again. And for the first time in my memory, this Thanksgiving I ate so much that I had to go lie down because I felt like I was going to be sick.

Classy.

Speaking of classy - TRANSITION ALERT! - I believe last week I promised that I was going to share a story of drunken embarrassment? One that would hopefully be unlike any you'd ever heard - one with major photo evidence? Well I was lying. Peace out, homies!

I'm just kidding. Let's do this.

While we just celebrated Thanksgiving, there are other national holidays that need tending to as well.* One of those is Fourth of July. It's not a particularly notable one, as far as holidays go. It's not as fun or sexy as Halloween, and it lacks the nostalgic, magical feeling of the winter holidays. But, I mean, it's not as bad as, say, Memorial Day. Like, bummer much?

*I am just NAILING these transitions! CRUSHING IT.

But I suppose there's something to be said for being able to take a time out and enjoy a nice summer day with your friends. And enjoy it I did, a couple years ago. My friend Andrew graciously invited the gang to the apartment he was renting for the summer at his University.* What he neglected to mention, however, was that his little place had no air conditioning. In July. With like thirty people inside. Of course, there wasn't actually anything he could've done about this, but it was one of those things that we all decided to get half-faux upset about anyway. "Did you know he doesn't have air conditioning?" "No, he didn't say anything!" "He's RIDICULOUS." The bottom line is that everyone was sweaty to begin with, so combined with the copious drinking that is a staple of the holiday, the yield was SWEATY SWEAT MONSTERS.

*And when I say 'his university', I of course mean the one that he OWNS.

Look at how these pretty people glisten. You can practically smell them from here. 

Sweaty sweat monsters was the technical term that night. By that I mean that one person shouted "SWEATY SWEAT MONSTERS!" and then everyone else was shouting that the rest of the night. So now that I've set the hot, crowded scene, let's get to the point. I know you're dying to. As established, while I'm not much of a drinker, when I do drink, four different possible personalities emerge. One of those fellas was named Smith. Let's look back at my description of him, shall we? 

"Smith lives life pretty hardcore. Not really, but Smith doesn't like the idea that he's perceived as boring - he HATES the idea that he's predictable. So he wants to shock or surprise people by doing things you'd never expect. He's a rebel, man! He likes playing games that involve dares because SMITH FREAKING LOVES DARES."

So now that we've got the scene set and the personality established, here's what happened. Smith and several of his pals were sitting in the skinny little hallway of the apartment, chatting. One of Smith's friends said to him, "I bet you can't climb up this wall using just your back and your legs." "IS THAT A DARE?" Smith asked. "No, it's just a suggestion." Said the friend. Smith was PRETTY FUCKIN' SURE IT WAS A DARE, AND SMITH LOVES DARES. "You totally don't think I'll do it, do you??? Well guess what, I'll totally do it." And so he did, shimmying up the wall until he could touch the ceiling. He sat up there, legs stretched over the hall like a little bridge that people walked under. Occasionally people at the party would look down the hall, confused as to how he got up there or what he was doing, and Smith would be like, "Yeah I climbed up the wall, so what?" After sitting comfortably for quite a while, Smith suddenly felt a little push. Just a tiny thing, a slight lurch backwards. He was confident it was nothing, but decided to get down and check. When he turned to look at the wall, this is what he saw:

YOU GUYS, I PUT MY ASS THROUGH THE WALL. My ass made a hole in the wall. A literal asshole. I made an asshole in the wall. It's ass-shaped. And yeah Smith did it but SMITH IS ALSO ME.

Let's take a look at a side view

I was horrified. Smith had fled the scene of the crime, and it was just me standing there left holding the bag. I actually know exactly what my face looked like, because someone was thoughtful enough to snap a photo:

See, look how bad I feel! Also, note: long hair and sweat do not mix. Lesson learned, keep it short in the summer. Also how white are my teeth?

If you're asking how Andrew - whose wall I had ruined - reacted, there's even a photo of that too!

...mostly with exhaustion. Also note how high up on the wall it is and be impressed.

Everyone who wasn't me or Andrew enjoyed the sheer ridiculousness of the fact that I had left an ass-print on the wall and loved walking by it for the rest of the party. To make me feel better - I feel guilty for things I don't do, so when I actually do something wrong it ain't pretty - we came up with other, less damning backstories for how it had gotten there. Like someone who had planned on putting their butt in cement, but wanted to do a test run. Or a thief who robbed apartments and always left his signature calling card - his ass-print. The cops would have to make suspects put their butt into the hole to see if it fit, like a way less romantic or child-appropriate version of Cinderella and her slipper.

And yes, I had to pay to fix the wall. I was employed and making good money (unlike now), so it wasn't so bad. And now I have a great story - now at parties, as a joke, if someone fake-makes me mad, I'll back my butt up to the wall and yell like I'm a hostage-taker, "I'll do it! I'll put my ass right through this wall!" I just love the idea of being pissed at someone and yelling, "screw you!", then immediately ramming your rump through their wall and being like, "I'll be leaving now - enjoy your asshole, asshole!"

It is my dream that someone somewhere will do this. If anyone out there in the internet can do this and prove that they did this, I will pay you 5,000 dollars.*

*Prize money to be distributed at the writer's discretion - in this case over the course of the writer's entire lifetime.

It's My Birthday and I'll Dance Even if I Really Don't Want To

This is a tale that makes me feel queasy inside, but I feel that humiliation breeds character comedy, and if my humiliation helps me come up with a great post for this week, then it’s all worth it.

Because something this dumb would only happen to me. See, I’m special! A special martyr!

So it was my birthday a week or so ago. AND NO I DIDN’T GET ANYTHING FROM YOU AND I’M CERTAINLY NOT MAD ABOUT IT OR ANYTHING. A CARD WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE BUT WHATEVER.* I took two weeks before I could write about what happened this year on my birthday because just thinking about it caused me full-body-turning-red-sweaty level embarrassment stress memory for days afterward. Luckily the wound has healed a bit so I can deliver it to you, where you can read in safety with the cozy knowledge that this did not happen to you, but rather to me.

*I also enjoy chocolate.

“Good lord”, you’re thinking, “what could have happened to him that was so horrific?” Well, long story short I killed a homeless guy.

No, I’m just kidding. He’s fine. It wasn’t that bad.* BUT IT WAS PRETTY CLOSE. Quickly I’m going to give you some backstory you will need to set-up this tale of woe and body-rolls: I was in a commercial once. It’s not a big deal, but someone I know got me a gig dancing in a casino commercial. It was kind of funny and a nice way to make some quick cash and a story for a later blog. But it was jokey, club-y dancing. The kind of dancing Andre can do quite well. Six months later, right before my birthday, this same someone contacted me with an opportunity to dance as extra in a Bollywood film shooting locally. Yes, I’m aware this is completely ludicrous.

*Keepin’ it in perspective.

I’m assuming because I had casually danced in that commercial they figured I could dance again, and while I wasn’t quite into it, it paid ONE MILLION DOLLARS. I’m sorry, I mean ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS. A thousand dollars! For a day’s work! As I am currently unemployed (with rent looming), this was too good of an offer for me to turn down simply because it caused me a little discomfort. And besides, everything causes me discomfort. We’ve been over this. 

But I'm not stupid. As a method of uncertainty/anxiety reduction, I e-mailed this someone. "Hey, so I really appreciate you letting me know about this opportunity, but I just want to make sure this isn't like real professional dancing or anything. I am not a dancer, I can't even touch my toes, so I certainly can't do a pirouette or anything. If it's just sort of fun dancing I can do that." She e-mailed back saying I could do it, so I figured it would be okay even though I still felt weird about it.*

*If you in the audience are screaming "TRUST YOUR GUT!", congratulations, you are much better at being me than I am. I will happily hand over my life to you - not that you'd want it, good god.

A couple days later - on my birthday - she e-mailed me saying I needed to go to a rehearsal that day in order to be eligible. This rehearsal was in the city, and I was in my suburbs to have dinner with my family. I was starting to get stressed now, firstly because now I had to drive into the city and back, but predominately because birthdays are supposed to feel good and I was now feeling anxious and sad that my birthday wasn't going well. Stress about stress - it's my M.O.

Telling myself over and over I was going to make one thousand dollars, thus making the whole thing worth it, I drove downtown. When I arrived at the address, I noticed it was a dance studio. This was a bad sign. My stomach sank. But I had come all the way downtown, so I followed the sound of Bollywood music upstairs. Inside the studio, people were dressed in leggings and other dance-y clothes and doing stretches, warming up. Oh no oh no oh no I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT. Would you like to know what I was wearing? Jeans and a sweatshirt. "All right, let's get started!" The choreographer shouted. I want to die I want to die I want to die. I went up to the woman collecting paperwork. She seemed not much older than me and therefore I decided she was the closest thing I had to a friend. "Excuse me..." I mumbled, "this isn't for, like, professional dancers is it? Because I can do, like, fun dancing but I can't even touch my toes, and I certainly can't do a pirouette" I laughed nervously, repeating the e-mail near verbatim. "Yeah, the call was for pro-dancers." She said. I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I WANT TO DIE. "Are you ready to go? We're starting!" Shouted the choreographer. I kept rambling to the woman -"because I did not want to waste anyone's time or anything so I specifically asked if this was, like, real dancing." "You asked who?" She said, looking confused. "My agent" I responded immediately. I have no agent, but I chose to say that because it probably sounded better than "some lady". "Well", the woman began, looking at me sympathetically, "How about you just give it a try? If you don't feel comfortable you can stop." "...ok." I said, always the fucking people-pleaser, trying to be nice and polite, don't offend anyone... THAT'S HOW I GOT INTO THIS MESS - I didn't want to seem unappreciative of the opportunity so I accepted it even though I was NOT comfortable.

"OKAY, here we go, it's ONE TWO THREE AND FOUR, FIVE SIX SEVEN AND EIGHT." The choreographer started. They really talk like that. They also really go, "and then it's BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM" for the counts too, just like on So You Think You Can Dance! Also just like So You Think You Can Dance, we were dancing in front of a giant mirror, which was a nice bit of salt in my wound because I was forced to watch myself as I attempted to flail with rhythm. Some of the moves I was okay with - some sliding, some body-rolling, some step-touching - but then there were really fast combinations that I just could not do. At one point we had to spin on one foot in a circle and land without losing our balance (which I, shockingly, could not do), which I BELIEVE IS CALLED A PIROUETTE. Oh, and also, I was sweating like a crazy person because I'd been dancing for, I don't know, FORTY MINUTES in jeans and a big baggy sweatshirt. I knew that I looked as stupid as I felt. I suppose that it's entirely possible - in fact, probably highly likely - that nobody was paying any attention to me. I know that I'm anxiety-ridden and insecure and I tend to assume everyone is laughing at me. But I truly felt like a giant swollen sore thumb that EVERYONE was watching and wondering "What is he doing here? He's terrible!" I felt so deeply humiliated. At one point I'm pretty sure that the choreographer actually was staring at me in shock.

Forty minutes feels like a long-time when you're filled to the brim with embarrassment. I kept waiting and waiting for the rehearsal to stop, even just for a minute or two. Finally we had a five-minute water break, which for me was an opportunity for prison break. I ran up to my paperwork-lady. I apologized for wasting her time but told her I was not capable of doing the dance, and she apologized for the mix-up. I told her it certainly wasn't her fault, I just felt really bad and I was really sorry and I had a gut feeling and I should have trusted myself and I JUST KEPT TALKING. I KEPT TALKING AND SWEATING AND TALKING. What had been a understanding expression on her face had by now shifted to an incredibly wary one. "My leg is shaking" I said, looking down at my trembling leg, "that happens sometimes when I get really nervous". I WAS IN CRAZYPERSON MODE, the stress and embarrassment had pushed me into full-on raving neurotic territory. Wanting this woman to not think I was insane, I sputtered, "When I get really nervous I just keep talking!"*. "Ok!" She said with a tone that said this conversation was over five minutes ago, I was very polite about it, please go now. And so I did. I got out of there as fast as I possibly could.

*I have this instinct that if I point out what's wrong with me before other people do than it isn't as embarrassing. It's like dumping a date before they dump you, sort of. The thought-process is: I see what's happening, so I'm not crazy!

I'm pretty sure the thought process is WRONG because in retrospect I think it makes me look CRAZIER to be pointing out my own insanity.

I drove all the way back to the suburbs, trying to shake the embarrassment that continued to wash over me in waves. It would die down a little, then I'd remember the tiniest moment, like the shock in the choreographer's face and BAM it came flooding back. I tried to push the feelings deep down. I tried to think forward, picturing the delicious dinner I'd have that night for my birthday, since, oh yeah, it was my freaking birthday.

When all else fails in situations like these, I try chanting my mantra - "this will be great for my memoirs, this will be great for my memoirs, this will be great for my memoirs..."