So, I’m an adult, right?
I mean, I have conversations with people about how many pieces of frozen boneless skinless chicken breasts are in a package compared to what you paid for said package. I own a house—or at least a townhouse. I have sucessfully purchased and paid off one car.
I have a job and people seem to think I know what I’m doing. My boss said “people were watching me—in a good way” in my performance review. (I’ve discovered that this is the secret all “grown-ups” like to keep to themselves: no one really knows what he/she is doing. We’re all just working through the problems and trying a lot of solutions.) Anyway, I have a job. With coworkers. Who treat me like an adult, ask my advice, call me into meetings to offer ideas because they mistakenly think I have something to the conversation. This is a vast improvement over previous jobs/internships in which coworkers treated me like their daughter and were quick to offer advice on how to do my work, whom to date, and you know, whatever else might come along.
All this rambling is meant to prove one thing: that I am indeed an adult.
So, in walked yesterday, in which I learned a little about humility. Because it’s no fun to be a so-called adult and throw up at work.
Yep, throw up. At. Work.
It was gloriously embarrassing and humbling in a humiliation kind of way. At least no one else was in the bathroom at that moment. Except for the coworker who walked in, asked if I was OK (um, no, I wasn’t), then left and didn’t come back. Or send anyone. Gee, thanks. WHAT IF I’D DIED?!
But, happily for you (or maybe not, I don’t know!), I survived. I went home, laid in bed for several hours, ate some soup, slept some more, worked on some work I’d brought home with me (yes, I really did. How pitiful is that?), and watched randomly bad daytime TV.
I’m alive and kicking today. Aren’t you thrilled?