(no subject)
Ohgod.
I am a bundle of nerves today. At 2:30, I have my first interview in Project: Get Some Legal Experience. So here I am, in a suit and heels with my hair done, and I just feel about 50 years old.
We play a game here, sort of. Every day, someone is bound to have an interview, and so every day, there's at least one person wearing a suit. And you say, "OH, you look SO NICE today!" No matter what. Doesn't matter if the suit's inappropriate, if the shirt doesn't fit right, if they're wearing a Looney Tunes tie. So it's nice to get compliments from everyone, and they do seem fairly sincere, but I'm petrified that I look ridiculous.
And we all know me, you know? Last night I went to iron my shirt, and it struck me that I had never ironed a shirt before. So Kevin had to show me how to do it. KEVIN showed ME how to iron a shirt. He grumbled about the darts and shaping, but he was altogether very helpful.
But then I noticed, as I was ironing, that there were several spots on the shirt. Spots that looked suspiciously like soda. Except I hadn't spilled anything on it at all, and it had just come from the wash. WTF? I do everything in my power to keep white shirts white, you know, OxyClean and all that. And I get mystery soda spots. Just frigging perfect.
So I managed to make myself frighteningly grown up and put-together this morning--hair blowdried and curled and everything. And after I finish the beautification, it's time to get dressed. And what do you know--the brand-new stockings I JUST BOUGHT YESTERDAY are defective and have a giant hole in them.
This had BETTER not be a sign.
I am a bundle of nerves today. At 2:30, I have my first interview in Project: Get Some Legal Experience. So here I am, in a suit and heels with my hair done, and I just feel about 50 years old.
We play a game here, sort of. Every day, someone is bound to have an interview, and so every day, there's at least one person wearing a suit. And you say, "OH, you look SO NICE today!" No matter what. Doesn't matter if the suit's inappropriate, if the shirt doesn't fit right, if they're wearing a Looney Tunes tie. So it's nice to get compliments from everyone, and they do seem fairly sincere, but I'm petrified that I look ridiculous.
And we all know me, you know? Last night I went to iron my shirt, and it struck me that I had never ironed a shirt before. So Kevin had to show me how to do it. KEVIN showed ME how to iron a shirt. He grumbled about the darts and shaping, but he was altogether very helpful.
But then I noticed, as I was ironing, that there were several spots on the shirt. Spots that looked suspiciously like soda. Except I hadn't spilled anything on it at all, and it had just come from the wash. WTF? I do everything in my power to keep white shirts white, you know, OxyClean and all that. And I get mystery soda spots. Just frigging perfect.
So I managed to make myself frighteningly grown up and put-together this morning--hair blowdried and curled and everything. And after I finish the beautification, it's time to get dressed. And what do you know--the brand-new stockings I JUST BOUGHT YESTERDAY are defective and have a giant hole in them.
This had BETTER not be a sign.