The Moon

I started a job Monday that is supposed to last two weeks. I'm not, however, sure I'm going to last. Keep checking the obits.

I am doing some filing for an organization. This is my way of contributing to society as well as to the family, while I take a mental health break from my life as I've known it for the past four years. Filing should probably be the most laidback, easygoing, mind-numbing job there is. And it is.

Until you notice you wore the wrong pants to your first day at work.

By "wrong pants", I do not mean pants that are inappropriate for the office. What I mean specifically is pants that, although they look amazingly awesome and make my buttocks look very firm, they tend to fall down and do this ...


...when I do this. And I did this a lot.

Not only once. Oh no. A more accurate number would be, maybe, 2,304 times. Because what I was doing all day long was standing, reaching for files, pulling said files out of shelving unit, setting file down on little tiny table, inserting missing papers into said file folder in proper office-like order, then putting file folder back onto shelf in proper spot. Every single time I reached up, bent down, turned my torso with the awesome-looking butt, or even thought about sitting down, the pants that make my butt look like Jennifer Aniston's would slideslideslide down until my ass was saying hel-lo!

What was even worse about this situation was that I was stuck with these pants for a whole day of bending, pulling them up, bending, pulling them up, all the while trying to be surreptitious about it because there were other people in the room, including a very young man who I am sure would get really grossed out if he saw this 40-something broad pulling at her ass all day long.

And what was even worse than the worse thing above was that I knew all about the way these pants behave before I put them on. I knew they would fall down around my knees, exposing my very firm buttock cheeks. And I still put them on. Bring it on, I say! Because that's the kind of person I am.

I ended up pulling at my ass a lot on Monday. And when I sat down, so that my butt would not be exposed to the very young man who was also filing very important papers with me, I would pull my sweater down and sit on it. Try doing that with one hand while your other hand is carefully balancing a sheaf full of papers, three file folders, and a Sharpie. And now the back of my once-beautiful sweater looks like a beaver tail.

Let's just say I won't be wearing those pants again for awhile. Like. Forever.

Now that that's taken care of, I have to decide if I want to continue working at this office for two weeks. The thing is, while the people there are actually really great, and if I hadn't been wearing those pants, I would have nothing to really complain about ... I have discovered that filing actually kills me. Yes, that's right. Filing papers is too hard on my lithe little sparrow of a body. I am actually so sore as I write this, I am going to have to drink at least three times the amount of vodka and have minimum four times the amount of pain relievers so that I can even sleep, let alone get up tomorrow and do it all over again.

This office is actually a medical organization, which is kind of funny. Funny because maybe, instead of working for them, I could...

... maybe register with them and get them to come to my home and take care of me. And then I could put those pants away, put on a nightie, and enjoy my sponge bath.