Predictably, the first weekend I have that involves a fair amount of laxity in the stress department I've got wildly sick - that clever body of mine saving it all up for when I have the leisure to huddle in the executive suite for a day or two, and when the F-word is feeling indulgent enough to get groceries and DVDs. It's not so pleasant - running a temperature and having all this new industry jargon swimming endlessly through my dozy brain, and occasional moments of semi-clarity when I go into a deep, deep rebellion at my own plan of spending the last years of my twenties working in an office.
I feel like a big impostor there, which is strange because by yesterday I was pretty comfortable with most of the things I'll have to do. And it's not as though the other employees seem off - certainly more 'authentic', whatever that means, than people who were gung-ho about the television business. I don't know. I guess I haven't completely dealt with the fact that I'm going to be working hard and working full time just at the time in my life when I'm realizing that avoiding that was the whole point of the human race having an Industrial Revolution and female emancipation.
Anyways. We don't live in a post-industrial paradise yet and I have to make my money someday. And I'm doing it in a beautiful city, from a beautiful apartment, and getting good money working in a seemingly good office to do it. I don't give myself much more than three years before I start popping babies or just say fuck it and go to shrink school, but even that sounds like a jail sentence. Maybe two years would be enough . . . or maybe they'll sack me next week. We'll see.