WebMD is telling me I have multiple sclerosis. So that's what I'm going to worry about today.
I had a dream last night that the happy hour gang from my cubicle job came in to see me at the restaurant. They were pretty cool guys, and I try to see them when I can. The people at the restaurant... well, I wouldn't enjoy socializing with most of them, because they're like, 21. Newly 21. Ick.
The director of the cubicle happy hour crowd was one of my favorite people there, despite being about as high on the totem pole as one could go. He's a Radiohead fan that once asked me why he was the one that had to sign a certain form. I said, “Well, you’re the VIP of this project, so to speak,” and he signed the form while muttering, “Balls."
(Hi Steve. Nice sweater.)
The best thing about that job, hands down, was that we had a softball team in the summer. It was basically my only exercise all year, aside from using a stapler every day, and it's also how I got to know my now-fiancé. My name was still put on the list this year, and I'm really excited for practices to start on Thursday. All I have to do between now and then is rock out my free-dessert double shift tomorrow and concentrate on feeling better.
It's a little weird to see people from my old job. I've gone to a couple of their happy hours over the last few months and have seen random former co-workers at the restaurant (it's a pretty high-volume place for this town, so this is a weekly occurrence), but it's always a little awkward. Each time I see someone from the cubicle farm, they make sure to tell me all the latest gossip (there have been some doozies lately) and about who else has quit since I did. The awkward part is when they ask me what I plan to do. "Well, I'm waiting tables right now," "Yeah, but what are you going to do?"
I'm doing it, dude, which is code for "What the hell?" I'm waitressing, trying to get my affairs in order, planning a wedding, and writing about all of it. And maybe, someday, I'll get a job that befits my education and your standards.
Ugh, I can't get this ring off my finger. Sorry Scott, it's not you, it's me and my swollen manhands.