Adventures of A Real-World Adult™

So I begin today.

Your wildchild is entering the real world. Setting out on a new journey, equipped only with a bad sense of direction and a faulty Google Maps.

I’m off to work.

Really, it’s only an internship and so under the adamantium shield of Intern I get to make every mistake in the book, and get away with it, but it doesn’t make things less real, and I say that because I’m sitting in office.

Before you ask why I’m sitting in office, on day one, and typing up a blogpost, I’ll specify I’m sitting in the reception. The wait begins.
You know, it’s diplomatic strategy. You make someone wait, and then they seem more important. Well, I’m handling that game really well: it’s blogpost time!
You’re probably just glad I am not drawing a comic in here.

So far, my journey’s been great. I misread my watch this morning. In the dim morning light, my watch seemed to read 6:55. I said great, I’m up before my alarm.
You know that sweet, sweet feeling when you get up on your own, and see that there’s some time left before you’re scheduled to drop out of bed? Yeah, it’s even better than waking up on time, because you feel like you’ve snatched away those five extra minutes of sleep, never mind the fact that had you not woken up then, you’d have scored them anyway. Heck, by setting your alarm to 7:05, you’d earned them the night before!
Well, guess who thought they’d earned 20 extra minutes.

I don’t know about you, but once I’m awake, the anxiety that my alarm will shoot off, “any minute now”, is very real. It’s awful, and it doesn’t let me sleep again. It’s nearly pointless, I don’t get those ten minutes back!

So I lie there, waiting for the drill sergeant to scream. I used to have a siren as an alarm once, it was proven to be the most effective, yet it gives me absolute shoots in blood pressure, the cold sweat, the entire package.
At least I know I’m bodily ready when a real emergency hits!

So I lie to acting for what seems like forever, and nothing rings, there’s no sound.
My first thought is, shoot, the alarm isn’t working!
My second thought, shoot, I missed my alarm?
My third, and finally, action driven thought, let me check the time.

It’s 25. Shoot, I was scheduled for 7:15!
… but wait, what’s that? 6?
It’s 6:15?!

And then I lay waiting for 7:15. Turns out, I’d misread 5:50 for 6:55. That’s an hour and 20 minutes of my sleep I’ll never get back.
But I’ve mostly been on schedule since.
Then I got pranked by Google Maps this morning. As I stood at the bustop, I was texting a friend, and two seconds later, Maps shows me, with an A-OK in green text colour, that my bus was on time and had departed three minutes ago.

Okay, I was talking it was semi-important, but did I just let my bus pass me by? I was trying my damndest to be early too.

How early, you ask? Well, I live about ten minutes from work, and I begin at 9 AM.
I left home at 8:18.

But something tells me, my not so asleep senses aren’t wrong today, no bus did come!
I stood there panicking, almost considering walking the whole way, and I’d have done it too, but my footwear stopped me. I’d have looked quite a sight, stomping and struggling my way to work in a shirt and 0.05 mm heels. I’m really bad at this.

So I waited, and a bus did come. But before it did, with me at the stop, Maps tells me, “you are scheduled to arrive in one minute.”

Yeah right, smart mouth.

The bus I did get on came smack in between the two scheduled timings. So now I don’t know if I was late on my bus, or early on the next.

And now I’m sitting and waiting, for formalities, casualties (me), and forms—oh god, forms!—must be filled.

And as I sit here and wait, I can hear a high-end meeting beginning in the room next to me.
They’re discussing Pokémon.

Old Yarn

I’ve been away from this space for a while, and this time, it’s totally my fault. I’ve done nothing since my finals ended last week apart from pack my bags and run away from university for a record second time in two months. 

I’m away for three weeks this time, and I have laundry to do when I get back. It’s a waiting disaster. I’ve had a growing laundry pile for the last two weeks (which by some coincidence, happened to correspond very closely with the weeks I’ve had finals, who’d have thought?)  that I’ve been dreading getting down to doing. 

To prevent myself from having to haul any more than two full bags of laundry half the way across our residence halls, I’ve resorted to bundling up my bedsheets and linen and shoving them into my closet and getting rid of my dustbin (trashcan, trashcan, damn you Americanised English speakers) and half the paper napkins I own. It got to a point where my roommate pointed out it felt like I was leaving for six months, and I was still going to have to wash the sheets when I get back. 

In all fairness, she has a point. 

The thing about doing your laundry isn’t even the part where you’re doing your laundry. It’s the part where you’re playing Sherlock with everyone else’s laundry. 

See, we have one laundry room and its shared by eighty kids. 

Now, I’m not trying to build up a horror story here. I can’t know for sure if everyone even does their laundry. Among the ones that do, there are fourteen different  days in two weeks for people to do it. (Don’t kid yourselves, you didn’t do the laundry every week either in college.) 

I’t just that some people re great at leaving their laundry for absolute hours. No one else can use the washers because their washed laundry has been sitting there in a heap since 2 in the afternoon, and you’ve turned up with two bags of dirty clothes and have just finished dinner. 

Walking back with your laundry, down twenty doors, to your room, is a nightmare. Maybe there’s some complex social psychology behind this, but I’ve never seen anybody be super social from under two ginormous bags of sweaty socks. 

So our heads came up with a solution. They left us sticky notes and a pencil. If someone’s taking too long, someone else can take their laundry out for them. If you don’t want anyone taking your laundry out, leave them a note with your room number and get them to remind you the your laundry’s done, no excuses. 

Yes, really, those clean, floral scented socks really are yours, buddy. I know, how technology has advanced. 

It seems like a good move in theory. My brain just happens to kick into 2 AM wanderlust mode a lot earlier than 2 AM these days, so I just see people using it to leave everyone their phone numbers. 

Hey there! Yup, that laundry’s mine. If you want me to remove, the room number’s 420. Bring your finished math problem set too. 643-222-1800. Call me, (before 23:59 on Thursday) maybe?

Like I said, that’s probably just me. 

In truth, no one ever uses the laundry notes. The waiting game’s begun all over again. 

I walked in one afternoon to do my laundry, I was desperately short on clothes by that point and I walk in hauling my laundry. I also them realised I forgot to bring any soap with me and had to follow through with the ordeal all over again. 

Not finding a washer is bad, I’ll admit it. You need to take everything back and possibly forget about it and then wake up to have an underwear crisis or something. I can’t relate, I don’t know. 

What I do know is that its a million bucks worse to walk in and take out your wet clothes, only to find that none of the dryers are free. 

This particular day, I found a dryer that was done. Of course the owner of the heap inside was blissfully unaware. I waited ten minutes and then decided to inaugurate the laundry note paper. 

I took out the guy’s clothes and left a note telling them that I had. 

Of course I came back an hour later to find the clothes still there, with my note still stuck to their sock. 

I’m going to have to do my laundry when I get back in three weeks. 

Hmm… I had something kinda funny to say when I began this post, but I’ve forgotten now. I got too caught up in my own socks’ yarns. 

There go my chances of being a shred of a comedian.