A Birth of Biography. Vol 1
One might think that a girl in pressed slacks with a shiny corporate name tag would be offended by the smell. Or at least warded away as a vamp from garlic.
The truth is, grease and grit smell like home. There's also this smell of cold metal. I know that doesn't sound like a smell, but it's one of the most recognizable for me. Besides all that, I can stretch here without brushing stoic cubicle walls.
I guess I believe in habitats the way some people believe in soul mates.
Add to that, the guys here in the shop are coarse, honest, and I've laughed more with them in two days than I have in months.
The icing on the top is the owner of the place. Talking and laughing come so natural, it's like we were barefoot cousins in some past life.
If I let this friendship pass me by, I'll be an old lady with serious regrets when I'm 80. And I'll remember him too because there are at least 3 stories of his that I'll be laughing at till I die.
If I describe him now, it'll be mistaken for a crush. There's a lot of incriminating evidence there, but it is just the simple truth. But we'll leave him as That Guy, or Him, or whatever I decide to use which is masculine and capitalized. Or maybe just mid-sentence capitalized.
What I want to focus on is how different I feel.
I'll start with my horror, my may-as-well-be phobia of doing actual, manual mechanical tasks in front of anyone. Let's say something as simple as taking a measurement. I turn into a wad of OCD hysteria. All in my head.
Actually, I just sit quietly, measuring about 12 times before I'll move on to the next nerve wracking task.
I grew up listening and imagining the mechanical world while my Dad performed most of the operation. I've always been shy about this.
So why am I ok with being witnessed There, clumsy and lost and worst of all, observed? I have no answer.
The truth is, grease and grit smell like home. There's also this smell of cold metal. I know that doesn't sound like a smell, but it's one of the most recognizable for me. Besides all that, I can stretch here without brushing stoic cubicle walls.
I guess I believe in habitats the way some people believe in soul mates.
Add to that, the guys here in the shop are coarse, honest, and I've laughed more with them in two days than I have in months.
The icing on the top is the owner of the place. Talking and laughing come so natural, it's like we were barefoot cousins in some past life.
If I let this friendship pass me by, I'll be an old lady with serious regrets when I'm 80. And I'll remember him too because there are at least 3 stories of his that I'll be laughing at till I die.
If I describe him now, it'll be mistaken for a crush. There's a lot of incriminating evidence there, but it is just the simple truth. But we'll leave him as That Guy, or Him, or whatever I decide to use which is masculine and capitalized. Or maybe just mid-sentence capitalized.
What I want to focus on is how different I feel.
I'll start with my horror, my may-as-well-be phobia of doing actual, manual mechanical tasks in front of anyone. Let's say something as simple as taking a measurement. I turn into a wad of OCD hysteria. All in my head.
Actually, I just sit quietly, measuring about 12 times before I'll move on to the next nerve wracking task.
I grew up listening and imagining the mechanical world while my Dad performed most of the operation. I've always been shy about this.
So why am I ok with being witnessed There, clumsy and lost and worst of all, observed? I have no answer.