Slush Duty

Today, as I embarked on my afternoon slush-making adventures, things didn't quite go as planned. As usual, I carefully removed the slush puppy figurine that rotates on top of the machine. With each rotation, he smugly looks down at me, seemingly taunting, "Yeah, you're making 150 slushes. Didn't learn that in school, did ya?"

I carefully mix my flavors. I once thought it would be neat to be a barista at a quaint coffeehouse downtown. Now I'm questioning whether green apple goo and cherry goo will be a harmonious combination. I have come to the conclusion that you could mix dirt with a slushy base and kids will go nuts for it. Another thing they don't teach you in school.

The conclusion of my mixing drinks leads the way for the fun part: the lever pull. This is always quite the surprise because it can result in a streamline shot of syrup or a slush spray. Today, it decided to spray straight down instead of directly into the designated pitcher.

My cute flats are now drenched in slush. I carefully walk to the kitchen, dragging my slushy foot as if it is completely incapable of walking in general. Step, drag. Step, drag. The worst part is that no one is in the cafeteria to commiserate with me. So naturally, I am grumbling under my breath: "Stupid slush machine. Whose bright idea was it to give kids slushes? How can they be responsible for slushes when I can't seem to manage the stuff?"

Life goes on. I decide to pour it into the first cup. The juice has decided to migrate toward the top of the pitcher, leaving the concentrated ice mass at the bottom. Juice begins to quickly fill up the glass while the ice stands at attention until the dramatic conclusion.

PLOP.
Plop. Plop. Plop.

After Sergeant Slush releases them from their stronghold, the ice slams into the juice-- resulting in a splash. It was like a fat man jumped into my cup of juice, causing a large wave to erupt from the top of the cup onto the table. By this point, I want to punch the rotating slush dog puppy thing in the face. Like I don't want him to ever spin again.

I think if it were not for humor, this somewhat untrue threat might have actually occurred. I've just had to tell myself that service is service. It's easy to serve when it is within your time frame and your comfort zone. Everyone likes kids when they're clean and they smell good and they're well-behaved.

But I get the chance-- as much as I may dread it-- to give them a cup of joy.

And that's a joy that is worth sharing-- even if it may be shared on the floor, in my hair, in my shoes and other places that I don't want to mention.

Oh-- and don't be surprised if I have a public meltdown upon entering a 7/11.

The New, Old Me

Today, during one of my breaks, I found a dark crevice in one of the hallways. I snuck in, sat in a chair made for a very small person, and stared at a wall. I have never been so content in my life. No one was touching me. No one was shouting my name. No one was getting syrup on my dress. I didn't have to hear the phone ring. It was then that I realized that the transformation was taking place. I no longer want to have fun, nor do I seek constant entertainment. I just want to wear sweatpants. That's all.

I have never felt so far removed from the "college version" of me than I have over the past few weeks of full-time work. I used to look forward to intramural games that started at 10 p.m. and have coffee talk with friends at 11 to get us ready for a night of homework.

I no longer try to find things to do to occupy my brain. I no longer want to be occupied. I want the vacancy sign to light up in my already overworked head.

When you become an adult and start working 10 1/2 hours a day, you suddenly return to infancy-- where you are consumed with the basics. I'm driving home and I can't stop thinking, "Must get food. Must get couch. Must get sleep." Where are thoughts of an hour-long workout that once floated around in my thought process? Gone. I used to think I was one of those girls who "just loved to exercise." I would inwardly scoff at people who said they "just couldn't make time for it." The truth? I just wasn't busy enough. I used to wake up late, eat lunch and then go exercise. No wonder I thought I was Jillian Michael's best friend. I didn't know that riding an elliptical isn't fun when you feel like you just got hit by a Mack truck.

I got invited to a concert a few weeks ago. A concert I would have DIED to see a year ago. I had to do a pros and cons list in my head to decide whether staying up that late was worth it. Luckily, the old me won (despite the fact that I made a list at all) and I went. Where's the spontaneity that once ruled?

I know that once I get the hang of this new routine, things will become easier. I will be able to function on less sleep and less energy.

But, for now, don't call me past 8 p.m.