The Age of No Pants

“Ah yes,” I’ll tell them, looking philosophically into space as I sink my old bones into the memory. “The Age of No Pants.”

Can we all agree it is exceptionally difficult to pretend to be an adult when the world is on fire?

I’m feeling unsettled. My mind cannot quite process the Amazon driver wearing a facemask, or the dystopian line with 6 feet of space between each person outside Home Depot because they won’t let more than 75 in at a time. The lack of paper products on the grocery store shelves is mind-blowing, and my pizza delivery was left on my porch yesterday.

Social horror aside, I haven’t worn real pants in about three months, and that is not something adults do.

I should be keeping a journal of the events taking place throughout this unprecedented COVID-19 pandemic, because one day, my grandchildren will ask about it, and only one thing will stick out.

“What was it like living through a pandemic, Grandmother?” (For some reason, in my head, my grandchildren are British.)

“Ah yes,” I’ll tell them, looking philosophically into space as I sink my old bones into the memory. “The Age of No Pants.”

As a writer, it is no surprise I am naturally an introvert. I was born for social distancing. I love working my day job from home. I love hanging out with my dog and spending the evenings writing and 100%-ing Breath of the Wild while I drink a couple bottles of wine.

I love not wearing pants.

But I can’t even take myself seriously when I am sitting in a Zoom meeting knowing I am a business mullet. (Professional on the top, party on the bottom.)

The Age of No Pants aside, I think the question our grandchildren will most likely be asking is not about the pandemic itself, but life before the pandemic.

“What was it like before the world changed?”

Kind of the same. Kind of not.

I don’t know what will happen next…but I do know I can feel an imminent shift. We won’t come out of this shiny. We will crawl from it, squinting in new light.

Pantsless.

Unpredictability is the scariest part of this, I think. But we’re not alone. We might be pantsless in our living room with only our cats and dogs and a few empty bottles of cabernet, but we’re not alone.

Drop me a follow for more on #adulting and “the ‘rona.” Some relatable, light-hearted reading is exactly what we need right now!

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And for My Next Trick: 10,000 Followers Will Fly Out My Ass

Maybe it’s time I join the circus.

At this point, I’m damn good at juggling. Even as I type, I have about seven things floating above my head that I’m going to need to catch and toss again in a few seconds. I’ll use my feet if I must. It’s fine. I’ve done it before. I’ll be a clown in the circus, juggling my day job, my writing career, my family, my friends, my finances, my marketing, my diet, a facemask, and whatever else the universe decides to throw into the mix. Maybe it will just tell me to dance as I juggle. Move to the beat, swallow a sword, and tie your hands behind your back.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

I’ve written before about how adulting can be a lot. But I think the burden gets a little heavier when the thing you want most is about two inches beyond the reach of your fingertips. And within the space of two inches is about 10,000 sets of eyes.

“So how long have you been writing?” The agent asked me as I relaxed a little in my seat. I had just pitched my speculative fiction novel, Aftershock, over a Zoom meeting, and he asked me to email him the entire manuscript.

Talk about thunderstruck.

We still had 4 minutes left, and my tongue couldn’t pluck a single coherent sentence from my brain. Perhaps he could tell I was internally sputtering like an engine starved for gas, so he took the lead, and we both accepted our fate would be four minutes of small talk.

“I’ve been writing my whole life,” I told him. “I have a blog, #adulting. Light-hearted humor and relatable stories.”

The agent lit up. “What’s the URL?” He asked.

I gave it to him and explained the premise.

“How many followers do you have?”

I stumbled. I spent hours last night reciting a pitch for Aftershock. I wasn’t anywhere close to pitching a #adulting project.

“Only a handful,” I admitted. Twenty-five, to be exact. Whoopie. (Also, love you guys.)

“I just spoke to an editor yesterday about wanting to do a project similar to this,” the agent enlightened.

I think my left lung sprang a leak. It blew around my ribcage like a flying balloon, and for once in my life, I did not have words.

“I love the idea. But for something like that to work, you’d need about 10,000 followers. Then we could talk.”

Oh, is that all? Dude, I don’t even have enough friends for each finger on my hand!

I can’t remember what I said next, but I must have said something, and I hope to sweet baby Jesus it wasn’t dumb.

“I’ve seen it done in a month,” he continued. “If you really go for it and you do it right, you can get 10,000 followers in a month.”

Who, me?

I am a fumbling fool trying to figure out what I am supposed to be doing with my life, and here I am, literally 9,975 people away from getting something I’ve wanted since the 4th grade.

Let me just place this red nose on my face and hop on a unicycle as I juggle.

And for my next trick? 10,000 followers will fly out my ass!

I’m about to start cranking some serious content, ya’ll. Because I want this more than anything in the world. Drop me a like and a follow. Share with your friends. Let’s turn this circus act into a dream and pull a book deal out of my hat.

Follow me on Facebook

Follow me on Instagram

Follow me on WordPress

Let’s do this.

The Fart Box

Professional. /prəˈfeSH(ə)n(ə)l/. Adjective. Relating to or connected with a profession. “Young professional people.” Synonyms: White Collar, executive. Nonmanual. “People in professional occupations.”

Professional. /prəˈfeSH(ə)n(ə)l/. Adjective. Relating to or connected with a profession. “Young professional people.” Synonyms: White Collar, executive. Nonmanual. “People in professional occupations.”

Pencil skirts.
Ties.
Briefcases.
Cubicles.
Desk phones with cords.
Laptops.
Branded coffee mugs.

And amongst these items, people are perfect, mature, professional adults collaborating and creating and succeeding.
“Why does it smell like a FART in here?”

Perfect, mature, professional adults.

Klarissa drops her bag in the doorway and sniffs the air. “It smells like fart in here!” She repeats, wrinkling her nose.
I chuckle and shake my head. “One dude snuck one out 3 weeks ago and it LINGERED.”
Klarissa sighs heavily and trudges toward her desk, bag dragging lazily on the ground. She flips her raven hair over her shoulder and collapses into her chair, glaring across the table.  We don’t have cubes up here in this mezzanine afterthought of an office. We are spread out along a giant table and share shoulder space. We have to suck it in when people squeeze by behind us, and we might as well just start walking on the tables to get to the exit.

If there’s ever a fire, we’re all dead.

“I can’t believe this,” Klarissa continues. “They took away our downtown office. They’re changing our logo. They’re shrinking this department.” She groans and drops her face into her hands. “I’m glad I am moving to Vietnam. I mean, I am just fresh out.” She checks her bag, rummages around. “Yep,” she confirms, “Fresh out of fucks.”
“There’s the name of our new podcast,” I announce, leaning back and spinning in my chair. “Farts and Fucks.”
We share a laugh that is quickly silenced when the door swings open.
“Oh, Tim,” I greet. “It’s just you. Hey buddy.”
“Hi!” Tim waves as he makes his way toward his desk beside mine. “How is everyone?” He asks, his signature wide smile stretching across his cheeks.
Before Klarissa and I can answer, more employees pile in to this claustrophobic prison where we long for a glimpse outside and slowly asphyxiate on methane. The three of us share a look, then simultaneously shift our eyes to our computers.

Tim 8:23 AM:
does anyone else think it smells like a giant fart again today?

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
ALWAYS. like wtf???

Kaitlin 8:23 AM:
I can’t keep it together if we keep talking about farts & fucks.

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
hahaha the name of our podcast. I’d listen to that.

Tim 8:23 AM:
should i stand up and say “who is shitting their pants?!”

Klarissa 8:23 AM:
HAHAHAH

Klarissa 8:24 AM:
I think we broke Kaitlin. She’s crying.

Klarissa 8:24 AM:
LOLOL i fucking can’t

Kaitlin 8:24 AM:
god i’m so mature. laughing at farts. #adult.

Tim 8:25 AM:
hahaha

Klarissa 8:25 AM:
dude no matter how old i am, farts are ALWAYS going to be funny

Kaitlin 8:25 AM:
so true. always.

Klarissa 8:25 AM:
i can be 92 and still laughing my ass off at my own farts

Tim 80:26 AM:
at 92 we probably won’t even know we are farting

Kaitlin 8:26 AM:
Fact.

Klarissa 8:28 AM:
I’m really sick of it smelling like farts up in here. This is not professional.

Too many of us spend our lives working because we must, rather than because we want to. I work here because I like to buy nice things and decided adulting means having a big house. Maybe one day the writing will pay the bills and passion will finally become profession. But in the meantime, coworkers like Klarissa and Tim make the office days tolerable. They bring joy to the monotony of desk work and the world of machinery. This was never the plan, working in this industry, but things tend to snowball, and I consider it all a part of the journey.

How many times along this journey should I have been fired for laughing to myself at my desk, tears streaming down the sides of my face?

Debatable.

Things could certainly be worse here. Indeed, we have it rather good, if you think of this fart box as more a penthouse in the sky with a world-class view of packaging machinery across a shop floor. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, an office reeking of flatulence isn’t that bad.

I once thought working in an office would completely capture the essence of adulting, but I am not certain that’s true. In the 2 office settings I’ve worked in, it was far from what I pictured. From shooting nerf darts across lines of cubicles to bitching about farts on skype, I learned that being an adult professional does not omit fun nor frustration. What makes the professional is how she manages these things.

Publicly.

I will bitch all day long to my friends on Skype, but when I address concerns with the boss, I am professionalism.

The difficulties of professionalism and adulting aside, there exists an unwritten rulebook of office etiquette, and far too many remain ignorant of its existence.

  1. Chew with your damn mouth closed. You’re disgusting.
  2. Do NOT fart in an enclosed and/or crowded area.
  3. Do NOT play sound from your laptop without earbuds when those around you are working.
  4. NEVER talk politics and religion at the office. You might think you and your homeboy Trump are right all day long, but you are offending the hell out of the liberal millennial across from you and annoying the shit out of the moderate temperamental writer sitting beside you. And I like Jesus as much as the next guy, but please do everyone a favor and keep the preaching at church, not in the office.
  5. Don’t even THINK about talking to me if my headphones are in. This is office language for DO NOT DISTURB.

Speaking of office language, as a professional, I have come to speak this dialect quite fluently and learned the translation of certain phrases. For example:

  • Per my last email = CAN YOU FUCKING READ?
  • I will prioritize my schedule = I don’t have time for this bullshit.
  • It may benefit the group if…= Here’s what we’re going to do to make this easier on me.
  • Copying the boss on an email = I’m telling on you, Carl. Do your job.
  • Let’s table that thought = your idea sucks, Susan.
  • As soon as I get through these emails = I’m scrolling Facebook, ask me later.
  • Want to do lunch? = Wait till you hear the hunk of juicy gossip I’ve got for you.
  • Can you offer some support? = I’m drowning, here, Janet, get off your ass and help me!
  • I’m experiencing some technical difficulties = This computer is a PILE, and if you tell me to turn it off and back on again, SO HELP ME GOD.,,

Thankfully, we have instant message systems like Skype for employees to speak English to one another throughout the work day and let go of that office language filter. But, let’s be honest. If this company ever decides to pull my Skype conversations, I am so fired.

Tim 11:38 AM:
what time do ya’ll want to go to lunch?

Kaitlin 11:38 AM:
now

Klarissa 11:40 AM:
right after i finish this script and go to the pee room

Tim 11:40 AM:
just pee in your chair. No one will know

Kaitlin 11:40 AM:
Me. I will know.

Tim 11:41 AM:
That’s why these chairs are mesh fabric

Klarissa 11:41 AM:
makes sense now

Tim 11:41 AM:
right

Klarissa 11:43 AM:
we are cogs in a machine. we aren’t allowed to eat and pee

Klarissa 11:43 AM:
solution? mesh chairs

Kaitlin 11:44 AM:
what about #2

Klarissa 11:44 AM:
hold it in until you die of shit

Tim 11:44 AM:
or let it out and then the fart box becomes a poop box

Kaitlin Staniulis 11:45 AM:
let it gooo, let it GOOO,,, can’t hold it in any moreeeeee

Tim 11:45 AM:
OMG

Klarissa 11:45 AM:
OMG I’m gonna put a picture of Elsa in the restroom stalls

Kaitlin 11:45 AM:
YES

Kaitlin 11:45 AM:
TAPE IT OVER THE ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE FLIERS

Klarissa 11:46 AM:
that’ll be my magnum opus and last contribution to this company

Klarissa 11:46 AM:
my wildfire moment

Tim 11:46 AM:
HAHA #Gameofthrones

Klarissa 11:47 AM:
Elsa with wildfire explosion behind her

Klarissa 11:47 AM:
i’d buy that

Kaitlin 11:47 AM:
COMIC CON GOLD

Klarissa 11:48 AM:
ya’ll better quit your jobs now, momma bout to get rich off nerds.

One day, dear friend.

Drawing and writing and living our passion like the adults we were meant to be.

This is Why I’m Not Allowed Outside

I’m listening to the way my heels click confidently against the tile as I walk, and I wave casually at the receptionist before pushing through the double doors leading to the café at work.

Oh, God, someone I don’t really know is walking my way.

I keep walking, a little slower now, shifting my eyes from the floor to the space in front of me to the face of the man approaching me and back again.

Do I smile?

He’s getting closer.

Do I say hi?

Shit, he’s right here.

Maybe I don’t even look at him.

“Hi,” he says as our paths cross.
I sputter. “Good, you?”

Dammit.

That’s going to haunt me at 3 AM for the next 5 years.

We all go through an awkward stage growing up. Maybe it’s a bad hairdo. and you have  family photos showcasing that time you tried to cut your own bangs. It could be a poor fashion choice, and you’re looking back at those red pleather pants you just had to have in the 90’s. Perhaps it’s a combination of the two, and your high school yearbook forever has you in a powder-blue suit with a big-ass afro. (cough…Dad…cough…)

Thankfully, we all seem to grow out of that obligatory awkward stage and eventually burn all photographic evidence. But there are some forms of awkwardness we never really expel, even as we pretend to be semi-functioning adults. It stays with us, like an annoying extension of ourselves that just won’t take a hint and leave. We might move on from the chubby stage and our bangs might grow back, but we can never change the fact that when the movie ticket girl at the cinema told us to enjoy the show, we said, “You, too!”

We have to interact with way too many adults on a day-to-day basis. Sometimes I wish I could call in sick simply because it’s too peopley out there. Names and faces can be so difficult to keep straight, especially when you work for a company that has many traveling employees. I am constantly seeing new faces that aren’t actually new, and it’s the source of so many awkward moments.
I enter the meeting with a laptop tucked under my arm and I close the door behind me. A man with a purple tie already sits at the table with a notepad and pencil.
“Hi, I’m Kaitlin,” I introduce, reaching to shake his hand.
“Yes, we’ve met, a few times,” he says, chuckling.

Dammit.

Lock me up. I shouldn’t be allowed outside.

Speaking of shaking hands, this is a pretty common social phenomenon. But I can’t be the only person who panics about this when meeting someone new. How am I supposed to know if you’re a handshaker, a fist bumper, or, God forbid, a hugger? Too many times have I gone in for the normal white girl handclasp only to be met with a closed fist, or to suddenly be engaged in some awkward grip-changing secret handshake that I feel like I’m supposed to know, but don’t. Should I shake again when I say goodbye? And damned if we don’t awkwardly walk in the same direction after saying bye, and I must stop and tie my shoe to put some reasonable distance between us.

Only to realize I’m not wearing laces today.

Work is not the only place we frequently experience awkward moments. A few years back, they changed the words to Catholic mass. Suddenly it wasn’t “And also with you,” but rather “And with your spirit.”
Last week:
Priest: The Lord be with you.
Everyone else: And with your spirit.
Me: AND ALSO WITH YOU!
And now people think I haven’t stepped foot in mass for ten years.

Awkward.

Let’s just skip over the fact that I thought the phrase “peace be with you” was “pleased to be with you” until I was eight.

In today’s world, it’s damn near impossible to get lost. In the age of Google Maps and even GPS, there really isn’t an excuse. In fact, it’s impressive if you manage to get lost. But what are the flippin’ odds the driveway I decide to use as a turn-around belongs to the car right behind me?! Here I am, awkwardly waving at you as I back out of your driveway. Wonderful. And people don’t really talk to each other anymore, so we don’t ask for directions…but if for some reason I have to, and you start using crazy words like “north” and “east…”

I’m fucked.

In psychology, they call the phenomenon in which people think they’re noticed way more than they actually are the “spotlight effect.” OF COURSE  we find ourselves infinitely more awkward than anyone else ever notices. That guy I awkwardly greeted at work is not up late thinking about how awkward I am.

He’s up late thinking about how awkward he is!

Adults cry, too, you know.

You feel furthest from a functioning adult when you find yourself hiding away in the bathroom of DeVos Place in downtown Grand Rapids bawling your eyes out.

Let’s back up to how I ended up in that bathroom stall, pathetically watching the mascara run down my face in the mirror.

It’s funny how things sort of

   tumble

                                                                                    into place

when it was never a part of the plan.

Somehow, I survived my first year of teaching. And the thought of returning in the Fall was almost nauseating.

I remember standing in the back lawn of the high school as kids hurriedly and excitedly boarded the busses for the final time that year. I forced a smile and waved at those I knew (but didn’t really like).
“One year down…. 30 to go…” and I clenched my fists to avoid groaning out loud.             “It’s going to get better, right?”

 “right?”

“right?”

 “RIGHT?!”

I held up send-off and well-wishes signs with the other teachers and cheered as the buses made a grand exit. My sign said “Read! :)”. But really, I wanted it to say “GTFO!”

I wasn’t a social butterfly with the other teachers, so I walked back to my room alone once silence flooded the school grounds and there was only the distant diesel hum of the buses from the next street over.
I counted the dusty steps as I ascended to the second floor, running my hand over the railing, my mind desperately searching my soul for an ounce of excitement about the career I chose.

 There wasn’t any.

            “Shit.”

I stood in the center of my room, taking in all the debris scattered across the floor and the awful scent of pubescent adolescents. At least I had all my Spanish 1 lesson plans… next year would be significantly less time consuming.

I plopped into my chair and fired up my Gmail.

An email from the head of the foreign language department. Subject: 2015-Next Year’s Assignments.

                                                            Huh?

I opened it.

Amy – Spanish 1

Ginger- Spanish 3 & 4

Kaitlin- Spanish 2.

                                                                                                                        Dammit.

Spanish 2? You’ve got to be kidding me.

More lesson planning. And worse? The same assholes in class.

I could have pulled my hair out.

                                                                                                I can’t do this….

Negative self-talk never got anyone anywhere, but I was feeling so utterly defeated and burnt out… after year one. How do people do this their whole lives?
To mask my frustrations and busy my mind, I hopped onto Glassdoor to search for paying summer internships to earn some experience toward my master’s degree. That was my only way out. Two years of studying while working full-time.  Hard work. #adulting.

Fate, luck, whatever, I found myself working the summer for a company called NHA.  I would work in their IT department making course revisions for their internal E-learning modules.

                                                                                                            It was temporary.

Until I met Cindy.

                                                                                                Here’s where the fate comes in.

Cindy’s associate resigned the same day Cindy and I met.

                                                                                    That’s just too spooky to be coincidence.

Half-way through my internship with NHA, I was assigned a project for the Director of Special Education for the entire organization (84 charter schools across 9 states at the time).  She needed 13 engaging e-learning modules created from a horrible lawyer presentation about Section 504, and that was up to me.

I walked into an empty conference room five minutes before our meeting. I didn’t know it yet, but Cindy was almost always late. I took a seat on the far side of the table and worked to hook my laptop up to the TV display at the end of the table.

She came in like wind, almost silently and quickly, seamlessly and confidently. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, blonde hair cut short with brilliant blue eyes. She wore an expensive orange blazer over a floral blouse. She sat in the chair adjacent to me with perfect poster, and I couldn’t help but notice her long pale pink nails and a massive marquise-shaped wedding diamond on her left finger. She smiled at me before confidently extending a hand across the table for me to take.

She introduced herself with pride. I took her hand and consciously shook it firmly. I gave her my name, forcing a smile to hide my nerves.

“So nice to meet you.” Cindy opened her laptop and set her iPhone aside. It was far enough from her to not be rude, yet close enough to remain in her peripheral vision, in case she was to get an imperative call or message.

This lady is important.

“How long have you been with us?” She asked, making small talk as I prepared to begin.

“Just over a month,” I responded, looking up at her. She was gazing right into my eyes fearlessly. Suddenly a wave of intimidation swept over me. What was I doing?

“And how long will you be with us?”

“Until the end of the summer. I’m a teacher,” I explained.

“Wonderful! In one of our NHA schools?”

“No,” I admitted, breaking eye contact to glance at my screen. “Public school.” I told her I taught Spanish.

“You’re bilingual! That’s amazing. Spanish sure comes in handy. My husband and I run an orphanage in Mexico. Do you like it? Teaching?”

There was something about her staring at me in that moment that told me it was okay to tell her the truth. “No.”

She nodded. “Shall we begin?”

I kicked off the meeting, pitching my ideas to her, showing her all the “fancy” things I had learned PowerPoint can do that summer.

I’ve always been a decent public speaker, ushering my “teacher” voice from somewhere deep within. But something about Cindy made me a little nervous that day. Maybe it was her stature, maybe her demeanor, maybe her title and reputation. Regardless, I was nervous as hell running a meeting with her. I tried my hardest to seem professional, but still felt like a child playing dress-up.

As I concluded, Cindy didn’t say much, but she seemed satisfied.

“I’m excited,” she finally said after processing a moment. “This has been a long time in the making, and I am so pleased to see these 13 learning modules are going to come to life.”

I blushed and began packing my things. “I can get started right away, and perhaps we can have weekly touch-bases for you to review the content and—”

“Are you looking for a job?” Cindy cut me off.

“I’m sorry?” I was caught off-guard… I would soon learn Cindy had a special way of doing that to me.

“Are you looking for a job?” She repeated, a slight smile playing across her thin pink lips.

“Um,” I hadn’t given it too much thought—I didn’t want to let myself believe this position at NHA could turn into anything permanent, granting me escape from the classroom much earlier than anticipated. “I mean,” I stammered, suddenly not sounding so professional nor confident. “I am always looking,” I finally spit out, though I instantly wanted to facepalm. I resisted. “Yeah…if I found something I could do and that paid well enough…”

“My girl just resigned.”

                                                                                                    …what just happened?

Cindy understood my expression and continued. “Right before I walked in here. And I just love her, she does such a great job. But it really blindsided me! I am so sad she is leaving in two weeks.”

 Fate?

 Fate.

“So, there’s an opening,” Cindy continued as she started to pack her things. “Think about it, Kaitlin. Maybe we can meet again to discuss the job further. Especially if you’re not all that thrilled with teaching.” And at that, she left, just as swiftly as she had come in.

                                                                                                What just HAPPENED?

She gave me a shot.  She even helped me write my letter of resignation to the school. Resigning from a job isn’t easy. Writing a letter to the principal and superintendent to announce you’ve basically found something better and doing it in a pleasant and professional way is certainly #adulting.

There was something about her the moment I met her, and it went deeper than the first impression of intimidation followed by “I think I like this human.”

                                                                                    “I think I connect with this human.”

Cindy, Director of Special Education.

                                                                                    AKA badass.

I often joked that I was in love with my boss and would marry her if I could. I was just so enamored by everything she did and could do. She was, in my opinion and perception, the perfect adult. She passionately ran an entire special education program for 84 charter schools across the United States. She never backed down for what she believed in, and by golly your fancy law degree scares her not. She built an orphanage in Mexico with her husband and to this day gives those kids the life they all deserve.

She is a mother and a grandmother.  She has history. She is the image of professionalism and still manages to maintain a sense of humor. She cared about her employees as people.

                                                                                    She cared about me.

Once I finally completed my master’s degree (#adulting!!!!!), the thought of searching for my next growth opportunity played in the back of my mind. I searched casually for jobs, more the “dream come true” type. Just in case. But I loved my job. I loved working for Cindy. We were the dream team, man! I was so good with her, I could predict what she needed before she even asked for it. I understood her brain and I respected the hell out of her.

The thought of leaving Cindy and the Special Education Team I came to love like family sort of made me want to barf.  So, I never looked for my next career all that hard. I just knew someday, somehow, I would need to spread my wings. Like we all must at some point… that inevitable leap of faith one must take before the comfort seeps too deep. But for the time being, my connection with Cindy, the Team, and NHA’s mission was enough for me.

Cindy’s resignation two years into our adventure altered my entire reality.

We were sitting in a small room at DeVos Place in Grand Rapids. Leadership Summit was the biggest event of the year for the organization, and the team was preparing Cindy for her big presentation.

Looking back… there were signs. She glanced at her phone frequently that morning…more frequently than usual. She was unusually worried about the whereabouts of her boss…And there was an awkwardly placed slide in her presentation entitled

“personal professional announcement”.

In a way, I wonder if she left that slide in there as a purposeful foreshadowing… just for me… as I edited her presentation for her.

But I didn’t pick up on it.

 Not then.

Not until she sighed at the end of her practice presentation.

And her boss stepped into the room.

Then I knew.

            “I need… to make an announcement…” she started.

Shit.

            “This is probably the hardest professional decision I’ve ever made.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

            She teared up.  “I have made the decision…”

Shit!

            “…to leave NHA.”

Dammit.

I shattered.

I felt as though something was being stolen from me…but unsure what that was. My entire job stood before me announcing her resignation. My emotional attachment to her burned behind my eyes and I bit my lip, struggling to keep my shit together.

                                                                                                                        I couldn’t.
She was my professional everything.

“I need to seek greater work-life balance in my life. I can’t keep living the way I’m living… I can’t keep working this many hours and drowning in my work. I need to be with my grandkids… I need to be a part of my family’s life. I’ve accepted a position with Grand Valley State University as a professor of Educational Leadership.

I cried.  I wasn’t the only one. The entire room was a storm of saltwater.

“No,” Cindy demanded between her own tears. “You all have to keep going. We have worked too fucking hard to go back now!” She fired up, red-faced, passionate, fists clenching. I would expect nothing less of her. “We have helped so many kids. I have been so blessed to work with such a fine group of professionals in it for all the right reasons.”

                                                                        And I can’t remember the rest.

I can only remember the relentless tears rolling down my cheeks, and then….

                                                            then the inexplicable sudden wave of cold fear.

Like being slapped in the face with an ice block.

What does this mean for me?

 What happens to me?

What about me?

Me, me, me, me, ME, MEEEEEEH!

I had selfish feelings as I drowned in emotional silence. I didn’t feel much like an adult. An adult would be able to keep her shit together and stand up and applaud Cindy’s accomplishments and be happy for her.

And I was happy for her.

Somewhere deep, deep,

deeeeeep

down.

All of our experiences were flashing before my eyes, from the time I picked her up off the side of the road because her husband was too late to take her all the way to work, to the time she handed me her personal credit card and told me to go buy myself a pair of shorts that fit because I lost so much weight. There was so much more between us than just a boss-assistant relationship. And now I was faced with losing that connection, and just plain couldn’t freaking handle it.

We adjourned the meeting, and everyone rushed to hug her and congratulate her. I hung back and waited a moment, fighting for some composure, still struggling to understand why I felt the way I felt.

“I’m so pissed at you!” I said to Cindy as I embraced her. We cried together a moment, and I didn’t want to let her go. “But I really am happy for you,” I whispered.

I had a complete meltdown in the DeVos bathroom shortly after that moment.

And was caught.
“She’s my entire job,” I tried to explain.
So pathetic.
I stood beside Cindy just hours later as her audience filed in for the big presentation. I worked her laptop for her, preparing the presentation and ensuring all audio settings were perfect. I watched Cindy out of the corner of my eye with vague fascination. What must be going through her head? She was about to announce her resignation to over 100 people in person.

“Doing okay?” I asked, touching her arm.

“Oh yeah,” she said, forcing a smile across her face. “And you?”

“Not really,” I said honestly, also forcing a smile.

“You’re funny,” she said. She said this to me often.

“But it’s true,” I admitted.

“I know.”

Did she, though?

“You know,” she began, staring off into space. For a moment, I thought shit was about to get philosophical. “I forgot to wear a slip under my dress.”

I paused a moment to study her before laughing. She wore the same floral dress she had worn to my wedding a year prior.

“Well,” I offered, “the only one who knows that is you. …And me. Now I know. Totally judging you.”

She giggled with me and brushed her blonde hair behind her ear. “Okay. Ready?”

“Always.”

She was flawless. And when she announced her resignation to the entire room, I felt my emotions spiraling out all over again. The crowd gave her a standing ovation as she signed off, and she cried.

It’s amazing what a little liquid courage will do for you. I sat at the team dinner later that evening, my head slightly spinning. The bar tender asked what I was having.

“Whatever can take away the devastation of my boss’s resignation,” I said.

Still not really sure what he gave me.

“I’m gonna give a speech,” I thought to myself half-drunkenly somewhere after two drinks and before the arrival of the dinner plates (as a rule, an adult should never have two drinks before eating… especially at a corporate event. To think I would have learned my lesson at this point… but a corporate Christmas party a few years later sure knocked me on my ass. Literally.) I awkwardly stood, taking my beer and a knife in my hand.

I clinked my glass with the knife at the head of the long outdoor table for attention. Cindy sat at the head just beside where I stood.

“We need to acknowledge the woman of the hour,” I began, gripping my beer glass tighter to hide the shaking in my fingers. Cindy reached up and took the knife from my other hand, laughing and joking about fearing for her life.

“Don’t worry, I’m already passed the anger stage in the stages of grief!” I razzed. “I am so honored to be standing here with a team of amazing people. And we can all agree the most amazing of us all is Cindy.” There was a round of applause in agreement, and I realized other tables around us were now silent and listening to what I was saying. “We are so happy for you. We have this awkward mixture of excitement and devastation that makes us all want to barf, but we are happy for you.” I paused as the team laughed, and I relaxed a little. “Really, though, I have one question for you… Are you breaking up with me?” The team laughed again, Cindy too, and she shook her head. “Never!” she said. I smiled.

“You are on a new adventure and you will be terribly missed.” I looked up to address the team. “So, if you all are, like me, #teamshinsky4life, raise your glass! Cheers, Cindy!” And glasses clinked. I bent down and air-kissed Cindy’s cheek saying, “I love you.”

And I meant it.

I resigned two weeks later.

I told everyone, myself included, that my resignation wasn’t related to Cindy’s departure. But part of adulting is being honest with yourself. And to be honest, I did leave in part because Cindy resigned. It’s true I needed to grow and move up and really start my career… you cannot remain in an associate position if you want to be a leader… but I didn’t have any desire to go to that office every day if Cindy wasn’t going to be in it.

Don’t get me wrong– Cindy wasn’t the only one I cared about at that office. I made some lifelong friends there. But between the hours of eight and five Monday through Friday, Cindy was my entire world. And if my entire world was going to shift, I might as well be moving up and out of it.

Loving and respecting another adult for what she’s done and how she handles herself is part of #adulting. Dealing with the hurt of my mentor moving on and making the decision to move on myself was #adulting.  As pathetically devastated as I was, this was a huge growth moment for me and pushed me toward success.

Don’t ever feel pathetic…the way I felt pathetic… when feeling emotion. It’s okay. You’re not the only one. Emotion is this annoying tag-along to our humanity, and it’s not always convenient and it is not always simple. But it’s always there, this glistening apparition trudging at our sides, something we always feel but can never touch. We drag it everywhere and we learn to cope, even when we don’t want to. Cope the best way you can, but don’t seal it up. Feel it, let it flow through your veins and remind yourself this is who you are,  and this is okay to feel.

To this day I still rely on Cindy for advice and comfort. Perhaps I use her as a sort of “crutch”, a small piece of comfort zone to retreat to… perhaps it would be more #adulting to let her go completely.

But I can’t.

She was key in my adult development, and I can’t picture life without her in it.

“I’m not sure that I love it as much as I loved NHA,” I wrote in an email to Cindy several weeks later, after we both moved on and began our new jobs. “But I am going to focus on moving up and being successful. I am going to focus on being the ‘Cindy’ to a team like ours one day.”

Cindy replied almost instantly. “You want to be the ‘Kaitlin’ to the team. Not me. You will pave your own way. You are strong. You are woman!”

Connect with a “Cindy”. Find someone who will always encourage you and push you forward as an adult and as a professional. Find your mentor. Find someone to coach you in adult situations when you are lost in the dark. Find someone.

A parent.

            A sibling.

                        A supervisor.

All of these and more.

#adulting doesn’t mean going at it alone.

Kentucky Fried Adulting

Nothing quite says #adulting like a teenager’s first job.

Especially when that job is fast food.

I suppose there was certain irony in the fact that I began the first pages of this section sitting in the lobby of a McDonald’s. At the time, I had intentions of drafting an entire book around my experiences at my first job. It was larger than life, and while some moments were pure immaturity, I was definitely #adulting as I made the climb from a simple crew member all the way up to an assistant manager.

Golly, I was cool.

            The search for my first legal employment was less than simple. The day I realized I couldn’t live on a non-existent allowance and the annual birthday bonus, I borrowed the Mom Mobile (my mother’s ice-blue Dodge Caravan) and set off at a questionable speed toward the isle of fast food: 17-mile Road in Cedar Springs, Michigan. It was the closest to my house in Rockford, 10 minutes south.

Subway was first. Oh Subway! So delicious with your five-dollar foot-longs and Sun chips! Then I journeyed across the street and placed an app at the McDonald’s (not the one I’m currently sitting in, stuffing my face with a hash brown that’s probably not real potatoes, but what the hell). Then there was Burger King (the BK Lounge, as Dane Cook fans often refer to it) Wendy’s (although the girl with the hair has always secretly given me nightmares) and finally, right behind Wendy’s, I placed an app at the local KFC/A&W. Yes, under one roof, ladies and gentlemen! Root beer floats AND fried chicken!

“I just placed an app at that KFC and A&W place,” I said to my mother over the phone as I sat in the Mom Mobile planning my next move. “I’ll totally work for A&W… but if it’s KFC I’m so not going for it.” I was 16 and disillusioned. KFC/A&W doesn’t employ separate restaurants. It’s all the same, like a giant, overwhelming, bipolar menu where you can eat a chicken leg, and then devour a hotdog.

“What does A&W stand for?” She asked me, curious.

“How should I know? I don’t work there. I hope one of these places calls me. But I would much rather do retail.”

“Might as well apply at the Big Boy across the street,” Mom mentioned, ignoring my desire to fold sweaters for a living.

“MOM. I’m not working anyplace that implies fatness in the NAME.”

And then the waiting game began.

It was weeks before I received the call. I started to lose hope of ever possessing a job to make money toward college. Not that I had any idea what I wanted to do at college. But it would have been nice to have been able to pay for whatever education I would pursue.

Danielle Inc. was on the caller ID. I looked at it with a sneer. “Who’s Daniel?” I murmured to myself before carelessly placing the phone on the cradle and waddling through the kitchen towards the fridge, high hopes of beef jerky bubbling within me (there was none).

The machine picked up the call (yes, this was back when we had landlines and answering machines).

“Hi, this is Monica from KFC/A&W and this message is for Kaitlin, we would like to set up an interview with you…”

I almost peed my pants. I spun around on my heel, my hands seizing the phone. In my haste, I tripped over myself and crashed to the laminate floor.

“Crap!” I jumped to my feet and immediately called them back. I had an interview the next day.

I’ve always been vaguely entertained by the questions one is asked during interviews. My personal favorite is “What are your hobbies?” Honestly, it doesn’t matter, because once I get this job I won’t have any hobbies anymore! And everyone knows the interviewee is going to answer how they’re “supposed” to answer, as opposed to the truth. Can you imagine what would happen if people told the truth?

“I enjoy counting the number of ingredients on packages and chewing gum.”

“I’m quite fond of masturbation.

“I smoke weed on the weekends.”

Instead, we get answers like “Reading. Running. Going to college.” And other bullshit.

I suppose what is even more depressing is that these were the answers I gave: Reading. Running. Writing. Singing.” And they were one-hundred percent true. Yep, I’m that boring.

Whatever the questions asked, and answers given, I was hired on the spot.

“Congratulations, you’ve just become a crew member at KFC/A&W.”

“…Shit…”

            And so, it began.

From the moment I started working, I longed to have the honor of holding employment at an institute which does not force you to wear a uniform that purposefully makes you as unattractive as you could ever possibly look. The first day I put on those black pants, the heinous black shirt, and the hat, I looked in the mirror and said to my pitiful reflection, “Damn, you’re a sexy winner.”

I was trained on front counter my first day, nervously watching as my trainer (who later quit to gallivant about Peru and do something real) pressed the buttons, filling the orders that came to her. The numerous meal combinations and burgers twisted in my head as I attempted to permanently stamp them into my mind. I had to fight not to roll my eyes as I heard for the millionth time that evening, “Would you like that in Original or Crispy?”

“Original.”

Or, what has become my personal favorite, “Would you like that Original or Crispy?”

“Yep.”

Seriously? Definitely wasn’t a yes or no question, guy.

I was nice back then. Patient. My smile alone welcomed even the meanest vegetarian into the store. But that was years ago. I was just getting started.

It’s not that I wasn’t fond of the sound of crackling grease and hot fryers and all the acne that goes with it. It’s not that I felt a sense of loathing for my coworkers. On the contrary, they were like a second family.

If you’ve ever worked fast food, you don’t even have to ask.

If you’ve never worked fast food…

You have no idea.

My shoes slid across the floor as I tore through the store, the glass door slamming behind me.

“Why am I always late?” I muttered to myself, placing the black cap upon my head and yanking my curly brown ponytail through the hole in the back. I bustled past the line of red booths in the lobby of Kentucky Fried Chicken & A&W (whatever that stands for), grabbing an abandoned food tray as I passed an overflowing trashcan. Silently I cursed the costumers for being so inconsiderate. IF the trash can is full, there’s another one RIGHT NEXT TO IT. I glided past the front counter where an elderly couple stood in front of Monica, my assistant manager. Monica is a spicy, (though never feed her spicy foods, please, God) raunchy woman who cannot control the words that unexpectedly fly out of her mouth.  I flashed her a smile and pushed through the employee door.

Immediately the scent of frying chicken embraced me. It overpowered every other scent in the store. I turned the corner and passed the enormous dishes sink. One would never think KFC generates a lot of dishes to be cleaned throughout the day, but that is a common misconception. I dropped my purse in the backroom beside bottles of chemicals such as degreaser and lime-away, then went to search for my timecard in the massive pile beside the office door.

“That’s not my name,” I sang out to the tune of the Ting Ting’s “That’s Not My Name” as I shuffled through the cards. “That’s not my name! That’s no—Op, that’s my name.”

“Alright, let’s have a 411!” Monica shouted, her voice harsh and nasal. She was a middle-aged woman with long graying hair pulled back into a bun beneath her hat. Like the crew, she wore black pants and slip-resistant shoes. But beneath her apron was a red shirt, as opposed to the black donned by the crew members. She shuffled to the back and stood beside the tower of Pepsi boxes.

“Alright, we’re gonna be busy tonight,” she began, looking at the half-bored crew standing around her fanning themselves with their time cards. “Cooks!”

“What?”

“Don’t run me out of chicken. I don’t want a repeat of last night!”

“Wasn’t my fault,” a cook whined. “The dude ordered like 50 pieces of chicken at once!”

Monica ignored him. “Alright, let’s punch in!”

“Happy Friday,” I muttered to Whitney, a nearly six-foot-tall chicken expert who became a dear friend and later introduced me to my husband. I slid my card into the time clock. 16:00.

And the fun began.

“Thank you for stopping at KFC and A&W, this is Kaitlin speaking, go ahead with your order whenever you’re ready!” The drive-thru introduction was mandatory and second nature. I pressed that headset button and rattled it off like nothing. After three years of practice, I could recite the intro while counting out change and filling a gallon of root beer at the same time.

“I’d like a Potato Bowl please,” the customer squawked all too loudly from the drive-through speaker. I adjusted the headset over my ear and vaguely wondered if people thought I was deaf, or that our speaker technology was really that primitive that they must resort to SQWAKING their order.

“Would you like an ice-cold Pepsi to go with that today?” I asked. Suggestive selling was part of my job. We want to squeeze every penny out of our customers who roll around to our squeaky drive through window, and we won’t go down without a fight, gosh darn it! You want apple turnovers for ninety-nine cents, and you’re gonna like it!

I took a second order and tried some suggestive selling.

“Would you like to try a Potato Bowl today?”

“No… I want a Famous Bowl.”

Facepalm.

Potato Bowls and Famous Bowls are the same thing, Lady.

“Can I get a pie with that?” The customer asked.

“Reese’s, Oreo, or Strawberry?”

“……………………………………………………ummmm………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………uh……………………………………………………………………………………………………………”

            Oh my God…

            “Reese’s.”

“Go ahead and pull forward and I’ll have your total at the window,” I muttered.

Everybody loves money. How could one NOT love money? Part of #adulting is having money. It gets you stuff, makes you happy, and through a complicated and corrupt supply and demand system, the world keeps going around because of it.

Given my employment, I encountered a lot of money (and I mean specific amounts of individual bills as opposed to the total valued amount). Let’s face it: Bill Gates has contact with more money in a single hour than I will in my entire life.  Apart from my increased risk of disease and drug contact, and of course how easy it was to collect all the quarters on my collector’s map, I’ve noticed certain things about people and their money.

First, I must admit the biggest pet peeve I possessed was when I opened the window, announced the somewhat over-priced total, outstretched my hand for the cash, and my hand was snubbed, the money instead slapped on the window ledge. Thanks, Guy, I was definitely holding my hand out to catch the breeze, not to collect your payment or anything.

Also, when one’s order is over three dollars, one should consider it utterly rude to pay in change.

“Hi, $7.98 please,” I’d say with my signature smile. Then it’s wiped clean off my face as a handful of change is dumped upon my windowsill. Daily Double! Two pet peeves in one. This must be my lucky day. I never worked on an honors system. When it came to the accuracy of my drawer, I took it quite personal. I WILL be counting your handful of change, and I won’t be giving you a break if it’s short!

I greatly appreciated a costumer having their payment ready and willing as I opened the window. The last thing I wanted to see was a customer’s increasingly large rear-end as they bent over in their seat in search of their purse which had so conveniently slipped off the passenger seat and landed on the floor. As if that wasn’t terrible enough, the same customer would sit and count out exact change to top it off. Don’t get me wrong, I loved exact change. It cut my cash-out time in half. But I wasn’t much for a peepshow of the customer’s backside as they searched for said change.

I found myself involuntarily judging a person based on the physical condition of their chosen method of payment.  I was always appreciative toward the simple, single crisp twenty that was handed to me and cashed in seconds. The newer bills kept my drawer looking organized. These people, I presumed, were efficient and responsible adults. They knew how to ensure the safety of Andrew Jackson during his journey from the bank to KFC/A&W. They were often very similar to the folks who simply handed me a credit card. A quick swipe and push of a few buttons, and they were ready to go. The problem with credit cards, however, was that we required a signature. It was much quicker for me to give change than it was to wait for the guy at my window to remember how to spell his unusually lengthy name.  Honestly, nobody looks at those things. Just draw an “X” and move on for Sander’s sake.

There was the money folded around the change deal. I understand you don’t want the cashier to drop the coins, but I often didn’t even realize you placed coins inside the inconveniently folded bills. Therefore, not only did I take the time to unfold the money, I also had to search for the coins once they cascaded to the ground. These people, I think, tried too hard to be efficient and therefor were counter-productive.

And how could I ever forget the careless spaz who shoved wrinkled, scrunched up bills into my hand. I guess I just assumed these people hadn’t the slightest clue what a straight line was and carelessly shoved their cash into their pockets where it may be forgotten for weeks at a time. Although I love a forgotten random dollar as much as the next guy, I prefer neatly placing it into my wallet. Not to mention wrinkled cash didn’t lay flat in my drawer and made it look terrible.

Though it’s not right, I found myself making strong, negative assumptions about the girl who handed me $23.00 in ones. All ones. I stared at the stack of cash for a moment, really hoping they hadn’t been placed into her G-string the night before.

Once, someone had folded his dollar bill into an origami sailboat. Don’t get me wrong; I love origami. I’m the origami queen! I can make cranes, butterflies, boxes, flowers, and if given some real time, I can pull off a half-way-decent inflatable frog that hops on a good day. But when it came to origami money on a busy afternoon at KFC/A&W, I’m afraid I just plain didn’t have the time to appreciate such an unexpected, germ-covered work of art, and found myself only annoyed with the extra time it took to unfold the masterpiece and place it in the drawer with all the other normal, crease-free bills.

I took another order. “That’ll be $5.69, thank you and please pull forward,”

“WOO-HOO!” Monica howled at the price. “69!”

I’ve warned you before of the certain dirty mind-ness Monica seems to possess and in turn exploit across the brains of the staff. One does not work at KFC for longer than a few months and NOT pick up some of these… tendencies. I remember how shocked I was the first time I heard Monica drop the F bomb at work.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee,” an old man muttered to me as he dug through his fading leather wallet for a bill.

“I’m sorry, we don’t carry coffee,” I informed him. It was my first summer at KFC/A&W and I tried my best to keep my temper despite the heat.

“You don’t have coffee?!” The man exclaimed. “That’s just ridiculous.” And he left.

I stood in silence, watching him leave, not really caring, yet baffled anyone could care about a cup of coffee this much (this, obviously, is before I discovered McDonald’s Hot Caramel Mocha).

Monica came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s 99 fucking degrees outside and he’s asking for a fucking cup of coffee.”

Well then!

I don’t know why I was surprised; if only I knew what was to come.

“She clogged the fucking sink!”

“Come on, you fuckers, let’s GO!”

“What the HELL is wrong with you?”

“Well. That just looks like shit, now, doesn’t it?”

“Requests for time off are just that: requests. Stop BITCHING.”

“Shut up, you hunsuckers!” (Still have no idea what that last one even MEANS).

Expanding my vocabulary and arsenal of insults certainly made me feel like more of an adult.

I took another order as Whitney prepared to pack it. We made such a great team.

“Can I help you find something?” I asked after a long moment.

“Just thinking,” the customer responded. Silence again. For several minutes.

“Somebody put a garage over this car!” Whitney finally shouted, tongs flailing in the air.

“Can I get the, uh… three… three col… colonial strips meal?”

Facepalm. Colonel. COLONEL. Like, “KER -NAL”. Not colonial.

“Yep, I can get that colonel strip meal for you,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. “Will that complete your order?”

“I need some cheese with that,” the customer added.

“Like, melted cheese?” I clarified, slightly confused.

“No,” the customer said, almost annoyed. “Liquid.”

Facepalm again.

Whitney rolled her eyes but obliged.

“I need strips down!” She yelled back at the cooks, taking the last of them from the window and tenderly (tenders! Get it?! HA!) placing them in a box.

“You want me to STRIP DOWN??” Monica called.

“God, yes.”

“I also need two breasts,” the customer in my ear added.

I stifled a giggle. “Original or Crispy?”

“Original.”

“Do we have two Original breasts?” I asked Whitney, lifting the headset off my ear so I could better hear her response.

“Oh, yes, my breasts are very original,” Whit smirked.

I laughed. “But really?”

“We’re good.”

I sold them.

I opened the window as the car sluggishly approached. I had the misfortune of glancing beyond the driver at the passenger… who was clipping her toenails.

            Ew.

Suppressing a gag, I took the man’s money, gave him his original breasts, walked away.

“You know,” Whitney started as she grabbed a broom to sweep particles of crispy breading from the greasy floor. “I think you would really like my brother’s friend. You should meet him.”

Monica shuffled by to withdraw money from my till. “Are you fixing Kaitlin up with a boy? Remember what I always taught you girls. You gotta get the bling bling on your fing fing before you get that ding ding.” She looked at Whit, who was still sweeping. “Make sure you pull out them buns,” she advised, referencing the carts of sandwich buns rolled underneath the sandwich station.

“You’ve got nice buns,” Whit said as she obliged.

“Honey,” Monica snorted, “them ain’t buns. Them are the entire loaf!”

I shook my head as I started the rest of my cleaning responsibilities.

“Excuse me, Lady, I have a bone to pick!” I heard a gravely voice behind me. I turned on my heel to see a man with graying hair and an unkempt beard. He held a crinkled fast food bag in his hand and his bushy eyebrows were malevolently slanted over his eyes.

“Can I help you?” I asked, approaching the counter.

“Damn straight,” he began.  “You guys screwed up my fucking order. I can’t believe this. Every Goddamned time. I just want a fucking burger! How hard is that! You all must be stupid.”

He continued like that for a while. I checked out somewhere in the middle, waiting for him to take a breath so I could sneak in a very hilarious observation.

“Sir,” I finally sighed, trying to suppress the smile twitching at the corners of my lips. “That’s a Wendy’s bag. You’re at KFC.”

That’s when the crowd around him erupted in laughter. I’m not typically a supporter of public humiliation, but that guy had it coming. You can’t be that disrespectful and not receive a visit from karma. Red in the face, he left the store in a hurry, tightly clutching his Wendy’s bag. I wish I would have called Wendy’s to warn them. They would have at least had a laugh before being insulted.

Here’s the thing. We are all human. Humans make mistakes. There is no reason to be a douchebag about a mistake. Be polite. The restaurant will gladly fix it for you.

Just saying… you don’t fuck with the people who handle your food.

Are you nuts?

Shortly after, Monica called me into her office.

Well shit.

“What did I do?” I asked as I walked into the office and removed my hat.

“Nothing, gosh!” she said. “I just want to know if you think you might be able to run the store next Wednesday.”

“What?”

“We have a manager’s meeting up in Big Rapids. Us managers need someone to run the store while we are gone. I should be back to help close and count the drawers, but the shift would be all yours.”

I couldn’t help the smile that was slowly creeping across my chapped lips. Manager? Me? It sounded so… official… so… important… so… grown up. #adulting.

“Yeah,” I finally managed to breathe. “I can do it. No prob.”

And that’s how it started. I would run a shift here and there when the managers needed someone as back up. But eventually I was named an official manager at KFC/A&W.

I spent a total of six years there.  Lots of blood, sweat, and tears went into that job. And grease. Lots and lots of grease. And I’m not just talking about the elbow kind.

This job was fundamental in developing my stellar adult personality.

And I was inches away from choosing Wendy’s for employment instead.

Who would I be now?

When analyzing the experience overall, without my experience at KFC, I would never have met Whitney… and she introduced me to my husband. I would never have gotten the management experience that led me to pursue a master’s degree in Strategic Communication Management.  I would never have built my vocabulary of sexual innuendos (so important) and wouldn’t have been motivated to be better than just the chicken girl. KFC was a solid foundation for the adult I would someday become.

Still working on becoming one, but I know I’ll be good.

The Dum Dum Dilemma

You know how restaurants sometimes have those mints you can grab as you walk out the door?  As a kid, I thought it was cool. Free candy, you know? Now that I’m an adult, I understand exactly what they are there for.

Lunch meetings.

And you’re the poor sap that ordered something with garlic or onion, and now have a very serious problem.

Gross.

Good luck with that sales pitch with fumes eking out of your mouth like an episode of SpongeBob.

Thus, restaurants provide mints.

What about when said restaurant does not have mints, but in fact has Dum Dums?

This realization hit me like a truck one day as I left a Mexican restaurant with my colleagues to walk back to the office.

Adulting is putting thought into which Dum Dum flavor you pick.

  • Is it going to turn my mouth blue?
  • Is it going to make my breath stink?
  • I still want it to taste good; does “Mystery Flavor” mean no color on my lips or shitty flavor?
  • Do I have any meetings today?
  • Do I need to get more than one to share?
  • How many calories are in a Dum Dum?
  • Wait, are these just for kids?
  • Do I look like I can pass for a kid?

Had I been an eleven-year-old spaz, I wouldn’t have thought twice; I would have grabbed a random handful of Dum Dums and merrily skipped out as I stuffed them in my pockets (Aren’t pockets great? My wedding dress had pockets. Many asked why I needed a dress with pockets. My response? “Wouldn’t you want a place to keep all your shit?”).

But I’m an adult now, and I had a very serious decision to make. And the reality was that there was no good selection. I was screwed either way. I’m either stuck with nasty flavor, with a blue or green mouth, or I get nothing and gas out my team with my mouth smells.

I settled on cherry.

Because at least a bright red tongue is more natural-looking than an alien blue tongue.

Or, I could just BUY A FRICKING PACK OF GUM because adults DON’T EAT DUM DUMS!

…do they?

More on adulting here!

Without my Mommy

I was 18, attending my first college orientation, and shoved into a large computer lab with other confused adolescents… without my mommy.
Not. Cool. 

You know what doesn’t make sense?

Choosing a major at 18.

We all think we are big, bad adults when we turn 18, but the truth is I didn’t know shit when I was 18.

How can a

hormonally unstable

18-year-old individual declare what she is going to do for the rest of her life? As a recent high school graduate, you will be working in your chosen career much longer than you’ve even been alive thus far.

Tell

me

how

that

makes

sense.

But it happens. We graduate high school and immediately have to adult. Decide what you’re doing with your life, or else you’re a bum.

Has anyone else noticed that?

The kids who start college with an “undeclared” major, or announce to friends and family they are “undecided” are stereotyped as bums or slackers or as indecisive.

Maybe they are the ones who are #adulting better.

Maybe they are more calculating about this life thing.

I didn’t want to be that guy. That “undeclared” or “undecided” guy. So, I decided. Because I thought that was the “adult” thing to do.

Decide.

Now.

At eighteen.

Because,

#adulting.

I wanted to write.

I didn’t know what, but I wanted to.

Maybe children books, or romance stories. Maybe even news articles or magazine editorials.             Something.

For me, part of #adulting must mean listening to your parents when they ask, “But what kind of job are you going to get with a Creative Writing degree?”

At first, I chose Grand Valley State University. Because my grandmother was sick, and that inspired me to become a Radiation Therapist.

But then, I changed my mind.

Go figure.

I moved to Education.                                 Which also didn’t pan out in the end.

Had I initially decided upon education, I would have ended up attending a completely different school. Aquinas. But there I was, at GVSU.

Again, how different would I be now?

Not that there’s anything wrong with GVSU. I didn’t mind it at all. I commuted.

In fact, after the mess of what was my Freshmen year, I was hardly on campus at all.

Yes. Freshmen year was a mess. Let’s ponder scheduling a moment.

I was 18, attending my first college orientation, and shoved into a large computer lab with other confused adolescents… without my mommy.

Not.

Cool.

#adulting.

I was just happy to figure out how to register for classes. No one told me there was a strategy behind choosing which classes to take when and where. And so, I ended up commuting to campus daily. And working almost every evening back home at KFC.

#busy.

Freshmen 15? You mean Freshmen -15.

Anyway.

I settled on an English major.

All it took was 3 weeks of a horrid English class dissecting “classic” texts and reading poems while asking questions like, “Why do you think the author describes this rocking chair as blue?”

“BECAUSE THE CHAIR WAS FUCKING BLUE!”

I dropped my English major and picked up the complete opposite.

Spanish.

I didn’t stick with Spanish Education (with a minor in psych solely because it was the teachable minor with the least amount of credits) because I had at long last discovered what I was meant to do for the rest of my life. I stuck it out because #adulting. That’s just what you do.

I wasted a lot of tears on my education and put in a lot of sweat studying and striving to do well.

Most college kids have one desire: just get it done.

Or party.

I just wanted to be done already.

Make money.

Get married.

Make babies.

Preferably in that order.

But what about getting more than ¾ through your degree and deciding you hate it? Like, really hate it.

What is #adulting? Do you suck it up buttercup and finish, get your big girl job, then go back to school later to try something different?

Or do you walk, call it quits, and search for your real passion?

One of those I call adulting. The other I call brave. (I might also call it stupid. But that doesn’t make it any less brave).

Me? I would finish. Get a real career then maybe explore other options later.  But perhaps listening to your gut is more #adulting than I give it credit for. Like I said, matter of opinion.

I’ve been there. My undergraduate degree is in education. And I hated it. I knew I hated it when I started my student teaching. “Child” me wanted to walk. “Adult” me knew I had to push through and start a real career.

So I did. I couldn’t waste it all.

I told myself the hatred toward my student teaching experience was situational. Breaking down the barriers my students at that inner city high school had built proved difficult, especially with a host teacher who didn’t even present me with so much as a hammer for a teaching tool. (Give me an Amen if you student taught for a dude who only hosted student teachers to get out of doing any work.)

My student crowds of over thirty were less than enthused to be taking Spanish, or, in many cases, already spoke Spanish and were bored out of their minds. And on top of that, many were uninterested in forming a relationship with the instructor. With me.

I quickly learned teachers must be a puzzle master… and I historically struggle bus with puzzles. Seeing those students was a secret mission in itself… How could I possibly capture the attention of those students with whom I share little in common? How can I earn their respect and in turn build a relationship with them and help them succeed? Skill. That’s how. Practice and skill.

But I was made to feel I had no such skill. The teacher I worked with (…for…) was horrid. He continuously signed up to host student teachers specifically so that he did not have to do work. There was no noble passing down of knowledge happening there. Nothing.

So I lied to myself. I lied and told myself I would really shine in a different scholarly environment. I lied big and I lied loud, and I lied hard.

This lie to myself got me through, got me my degree, got me a subbing job, and eventually got me my first teaching job. It got me places. But it was an adult lie.

It took me about 4 months of teaching high school assholes to realize how much I had lied to myself.

I wasn’t prepared to be a teacher, despite my education. A 23-year-old woman fresh out of college simply cannot successfully control a room of hormonal Gen Z high school students who have no real desire to learn a foreign language.

And if you can, you’re my hero.

It just wasn’t

for me.

Back then, I felt like a large part of being an adult meant being respected, not just by those younger than you, but by your colleagues and superiors. Teaching gave me no feeling of respect. I didn’t feel appreciated.

I didn’t feel anything.

Not to discourage anyone from the profession of teaching. Like I said, it just wasn’t

Me

Like I had hoped it would be.

I didn’t quit. I adulted, stuck it out, and I started my master’s degree.

Master’s in Strategic Communication Management.

Best. Decision. Of. My. Life.

Going back to school after you’ve started your big girl job because you want more for yourself and are prepared to put in all the time and effort? #adulting.

Shout out to all you hardworking ladies and fellas who are working, learning, and supporting all at once. You’re my heroes. Keep showing ’em how it’s done.