I should be used to rejections by now, right? I have been rejected by the man I love, about 5000 000 jobs and even the football gods, seeing how Manchester City beat United at the all-important derby. But let me tell you nothing, NOTHING prepared me for perhaps the most vicious of all the rejections: one by my shoes.
As we're finally moving towards summer, I'm trying to re-educate my feet. After 10 months of trawling through snow, sleet and downpours of rain of biblical quantities in sensible, flat boots, I figured it was time to celebrate the lack of sense in the most outrageously high heels imaginable. Even more so now that I have the internship to turn up to and an entire office to wow with my sartorial choices and ability to fix copy machines. Trust me, it's disturbing how a job with a meaning is so very similar to a brain dead office monkey job with no meaning. Paper cuts, jammed staplers and empty paper trays galore.
As we're finally moving towards summer, I'm trying to re-educate my feet. After 10 months of trawling through snow, sleet and downpours of rain of biblical quantities in sensible, flat boots, I figured it was time to celebrate the lack of sense in the most outrageously high heels imaginable. Even more so now that I have the internship to turn up to and an entire office to wow with my sartorial choices and ability to fix copy machines. Trust me, it's disturbing how a job with a meaning is so very similar to a brain dead office monkey job with no meaning. Paper cuts, jammed staplers and empty paper trays galore.
Anyway... I soldiered on in my 4 inch heels that I distinctly remember being comfortable the last time I dug them out of my closet. At the end of my first day I had tears in my eyes for two reasons. A) I can't believe I still haven't had a callback from any of the proper jobs I've applied for - am I seriously not better than this? And B) from the sheer pain of my bleeding , blistered toes that had reached a shade of purple even Make Up Store's colour charts don't offer.
I might not have much going on, but if even shoes, my sole-mates I've always been able to depend on are being taken away from me... then I really don't have much.
Considering how much I've been bashing The Man for not having an identity outside his work, I might not be much better myself. It's silly how much what we do for five days a week in order to earn the paycheck that pays for our life on the remaining two really defines us. These days when I meet my friends, I feel I have absolutely nothing to talk to them about. And since most of them are not banning me from talking about the disaster that is my love life... I'm lost. Who am I? What am I good for?
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