1 .
The paperwork is piling up on my desk, my phone keeps ringing off the hook, and all I can think about is the fact that my little sister is eight weeks pregnant.
Eight weeks.
Two months.
My little sister.
Babies.
She doesn’t seem old enough to be pregnant, but at 22, she seems like more of an adult than I am. She has it all together: she’s debt-free with a stable relationship, she owns her own car, and she’s in the process of buying a house.
Now she’s having a baby.
And the only thing I’m having is lunch.
And the fat girl inside of me is counting down the minutes until I can chow down on the turkey-and-cheese sandwiches that are going to be served during today’s luncheon.
It’s going to have to wait, though, because this stack of design changes has to be addressed right away. From minor email address modifications to typos on the website, my new job as the webmaster at Southvale Community College keeps me busy from the time I arrive until the time I leave.
Any notions I had of this job allowing me “down time” have long been forgotten.
I don't mind, though. It's exactly what I want to be doing. I get to live with my favorite person in the world, I get to enjoy a regular work schedule, and I don't have to put up with too much political garbage from my superiors.
Emphasis on the not too much.
There’s a knock at my door accompanied by someone clearing their throat. I turn to see Timothy Shoemaker, my boss, peeking in the doorway.
“What’s up, Tim?” I ask him, trying to look as busy as I feel. The last thing I want to do is give him the idea that I’m somehow not working as hard as I could be.
He probably suspects that I’m daydreaming about lunch.
I don’t need to affirm his suspicions.
“The donor lunch is in half an hour. Just wanted to remind you.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Don’t worry. I won’t be late.”
“Um, Violet?”
“Yeah?”
He gives me a quick once-over.
“It’s a professional lunch. Did you bring something to change into?”
I glance down at my jeans and “ Did you try turning it off and then back on again?” t-shirt. Got it.
“Yeah,” I tell him, nodding toward the dress I have hanging in the corner. “I’ll be ready. Don’t worry.” When the college organized the formal lunch as a thank-you to our generous donors, I had already been notified several times from several different departments that I needed to dress up. While most of the I.T. department wears jeans and t-shirts, it’s somehow really, really, really important to everyone that I, out of everyone, look dressed up.
“Thanks,” Tim flashes me a smile before disappearing. He's going to make sure that everyone else is also dressed appropriately, at least that's what I tell myself. Shoving my paperwork to the side of my desk, I stand up and grab my dress and makeup bag. Time to make myself look pretty.
I make my way down the narrow hallway. While the college is rapidly growing and expanding its buildings, the design team hasn’t quite gotten around to my department yet. The group of tech geeks is still somehow lodged in the basement of the administration building, which is fine, but isolated. Today, though, I don’t mind. I have the entire downstairs bathroom to myself to dress and primp and polish myself before the luncheon.
I close the door to the ladies restroom and don’t bother going into a stall. No one is going to come in here. I work with an office full of guys and the only women who wander down to the I.T. department are students who get lost on the first day of classes.
It’s October, so I have nothing to worry about.
I’m convinced that no other female has been down here since August.
The dress I’m wearing to the luncheon is knee-length and black with white roses all over it. I pair it with an amazing pair of high heels. Then I reapply
The paperwork is piling up on my desk, my phone keeps ringing off the hook, and all I can think about is the fact that my little sister is eight weeks pregnant.
Eight weeks.
Two months.
My little sister.
Babies.
She doesn’t seem old enough to be pregnant, but at 22, she seems like more of an adult than I am. She has it all together: she’s debt-free with a stable relationship, she owns her own car, and she’s in the process of buying a house.
Now she’s having a baby.
And the only thing I’m having is lunch.
And the fat girl inside of me is counting down the minutes until I can chow down on the turkey-and-cheese sandwiches that are going to be served during today’s luncheon.
It’s going to have to wait, though, because this stack of design changes has to be addressed right away. From minor email address modifications to typos on the website, my new job as the webmaster at Southvale Community College keeps me busy from the time I arrive until the time I leave.
Any notions I had of this job allowing me “down time” have long been forgotten.
I don't mind, though. It's exactly what I want to be doing. I get to live with my favorite person in the world, I get to enjoy a regular work schedule, and I don't have to put up with too much political garbage from my superiors.
Emphasis on the not too much.
There’s a knock at my door accompanied by someone clearing their throat. I turn to see Timothy Shoemaker, my boss, peeking in the doorway.
“What’s up, Tim?” I ask him, trying to look as busy as I feel. The last thing I want to do is give him the idea that I’m somehow not working as hard as I could be.
He probably suspects that I’m daydreaming about lunch.
I don’t need to affirm his suspicions.
“The donor lunch is in half an hour. Just wanted to remind you.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Don’t worry. I won’t be late.”
“Um, Violet?”
“Yeah?”
He gives me a quick once-over.
“It’s a professional lunch. Did you bring something to change into?”
I glance down at my jeans and “ Did you try turning it off and then back on again?” t-shirt. Got it.
“Yeah,” I tell him, nodding toward the dress I have hanging in the corner. “I’ll be ready. Don’t worry.” When the college organized the formal lunch as a thank-you to our generous donors, I had already been notified several times from several different departments that I needed to dress up. While most of the I.T. department wears jeans and t-shirts, it’s somehow really, really, really important to everyone that I, out of everyone, look dressed up.
“Thanks,” Tim flashes me a smile before disappearing. He's going to make sure that everyone else is also dressed appropriately, at least that's what I tell myself. Shoving my paperwork to the side of my desk, I stand up and grab my dress and makeup bag. Time to make myself look pretty.
I make my way down the narrow hallway. While the college is rapidly growing and expanding its buildings, the design team hasn’t quite gotten around to my department yet. The group of tech geeks is still somehow lodged in the basement of the administration building, which is fine, but isolated. Today, though, I don’t mind. I have the entire downstairs bathroom to myself to dress and primp and polish myself before the luncheon.
I close the door to the ladies restroom and don’t bother going into a stall. No one is going to come in here. I work with an office full of guys and the only women who wander down to the I.T. department are students who get lost on the first day of classes.
It’s October, so I have nothing to worry about.
I’m convinced that no other female has been down here since August.
The dress I’m wearing to the luncheon is knee-length and black with white roses all over it. I pair it with an amazing pair of high heels. Then I reapply
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