Yesterday, I got up early, got dressed (as in actual clothing, not workout clothing) (haaaaaaa "workout"), did mah hairs and face, and drove to an office. The office? My office? I still don't know what to call it. I've been consulting for this company for well over a year now but have shown up live and in person maybe a dozen times, if that. I still have to retrieve a restroom key from the reception area, and I still get kind of a sweaty panic about using it because the lock is jacked, and although I think I've figured out the right amount of twist-jiggling required to open the stupid door, it still takes me a full minute to re-learn the trick and it's a terribly stressful minute that I spend terrified that I will 1) pee myself or 2) be seen by another human being while looking like an idiot who CAN'T OPEN A DOOR.
In other words, I don't think I've earned the right to call it "my" office yet. I am still a telecommuting part-time interloper, a person who half of the employees there don't even know, or don't recognize that I'm that asshole who bugs them about their blog post topic deadlines 40 fricking million times a month, GOD GURL, SLOW YOUR ROLL, I'M BUSY.
So anyway, I showed up yesterday for the biweekly in-person meeting, as per usual, only to learn that oh, it was canceled. A bunch of people were away at a conference, a conference that was discussed at the prior week's biweekly phone meeting, but...uh. I guess I wasn't maybe listening closely enough. (IT WAS STILL ON THE CALENDAR. I DON'T OVERRIDE THE CALENDAR WITH VAGUE MEMORIES OF PEOPLE SAYING SHIT TO ME. THAT WAY LIES MADNESS; ME MISSING THINGS.)
"It's okay," I told myself. "I'm still allowed to be here. Nobody knows that I showed up completely unnecessarily. I am a business-y professional person who is going to sit here and get today's work done in a clean, non-poop-and-index-card covered office and I'm going to be efficient as fuck."
"I am also," myself continued, "going to stay here even if I have to pee, even though I could totally just leave and go somewhere with a less intimidating bathroom door."
AND I DID. WHUUUTUP BITCHES.
I should probably take a second to remind the audience that I 1) am 35 damn years old, 2) have been blogging for nearly 10 years now and 3) am still at a point in my life where successfully managing to get to a bathroom is considered a momentous, bloggable plot point.