It usually takes about five days of being a little shit for the cosmic energy of the world puts me in my place.
Lemme back up a lil' by saying I currently have the easiest job I will ever have in my adult life. I work at the athletic center, where during any given shift I can be assigned to one of three posts: front desk, equipment room, and floater. At the front desk, I sit and check people in. I basically get paid to watch Hulu. At the equipment room, I sit and lend out basketballs, tennis rackets, etc. to people. I basically get paid to watch Hulu.
Then there's the floater shift.
If at reading that word your mind wants to drift away from thoughts of poop, don't let it. The floater shift is the cleaning shift, directly opposing the previously mentioned dream shifts. I guess it's a good balance of responsibilities and it keeps the place looking nice n' clean BUT THAT DUN' MEAN I WANNA DO IT. I got this job as a naive 17-year-old freshman girl. I barely ever cleaned my room and certainly did not sign up for a janitorial career. Alas, there it was, in fine-print. I've come to terms with it at this point as an inevitability but it still kinda suuuuxcksz.
It seems every few Fridays I get assigned a stray floater shift from 11am to noon. The task at hand for said shift is to simply mop the weight room.
I'm not even gonna get into how... disgusting a weight room can get (the sweat of every sports team member on campus in one anti-ventilated room) or how long it took me to teach myself manual labor (what is... "vack-yoom"?). At this point I'm more concerned with the damage it does to my high-and-mighty image.
I'm not sure if you know what it's like to be in a room full of weight-lifters when you don't lift weights and your sole purpose there is to mop up their messes. Let's see if I can get it across to you. Imagine, if you will: a beetle at an ant-party who's only been invited to eat their poop. A chihuahua thrown into a wolf pack as a half-baked science experiment. I'm that beetle, that chihuahua: a naive teenage girl, weak as a kitten, in a room full of hulked-out and bulked-up men who
I spend about half an hour mopping the layer of sweaty debris off the floor, shuffling around freewights and medicine balls because I'm afraid to attempt to lift anything over 30 lbs. at risk of straining my precious everything-zius muscle, while mumbling apologies to tall men I don't know and mopping over my feet way more than any normal person should.
A real janitor would, could, and should laugh at, kick, and help my ass, respectively.
Afterwards my composure has melted into a puddle of insecurity, sweat stains and pathetic facial expressions. My trademark high-pony sinks into a low-back sweatrag and the hair behind my ears does this weird... sticky-outy thing that defies laws of physics. I only know this because one entire wall of the weight room is a mirror. This is what I see, when I look up in that mirror:
Uh-oh. Apparently my right-side appendages have atrophied.
Place-Put Town, population: Hayley.
Luckily I have all weekend to recover and be hot shit again.