I Did It, All Me, Can’t Blame Anyone Else or I Can’t Cry Over Spilled Coffee ‘Cause There Are Worse Things To Cry Over

So yesterday I said I wasn’t writing about this–today I am.

My new job is great, great, great. The people, the experience, the everything. Lunch at the job is great, great too. I’m no big shot by far, but I get to see all of ’em. I get to succumb to being lost in thoughtlessness, the Studio backlot is a very interesting place. There’s the new age execs that pair blazers with jeans and carry briefcases. The fuzzy haired blonde or dull cherry business women that look busier than I can imagine, the café woman who I could swear un-intentionally (is that a word?) gives me non-fat milk when I insistently ask for soy in my coffee. You know. A regular work-lunch place.

Yesterday was a day. I’m getting the hang of things, acclimation is steady. I’ve officially allowed myself to stop staring at a screen even when it is doing nothing. [I wouldn’t leave my seat even during lunch a few days ago, and if I did the worry that I would miss something was so great, my anxiety would send me back upstairs to learn the next trick or whistle that’ll hopefully keep me there] But now, now that I’m feeling better about what I understand, I leave for lunch. I wander. I stopped in the cafeteria for a coffee.

Since my new 6 a.m workouts began I’ve started to realize a few things I cannot live without. There’s tea I cannot give up. I like sweet red wines and sweet subtle whites—but those are optional during crunch time. What time is it you ask? CRUNCH. There’s avocados, shrimp Pho (when I’m sad, cold, angry, or need comfort) there’s the salad and fruit munster I am—no trainer will say no to those much, there’s breads and pastas which (less the three pizza slices I scarfed down last night to my own painful surmise—I’ve heard you can’t eat that *%#@ once you start eating right, but yikes) and then there’s thu, thu, thu, thhhhhhhhu… COFFEE.

They say you can tell who has graduated from school by one simple question.

“Do you drink coffee?”

The premise is, coffee is a pusher. It forces you to press through, sleepy, irritated, exhausted, overworked—whatever. You get that paper in. Same for mattés. Lately, I’m juggling so much I have to press through. 25 lbs. I want to lose. My trainer says 15 is fine, but 25 for me. Overachiever. Big stupid smile. I’m 140 and 4″11 and 3 quarters tall. “Thick in all the hula places,” my ex used to say. Anyway, coffee I cannot live without, although I’ve been advised that if I want to eventually reach the aforementioned goals—I’ll have to.

Yesterday was not one of those—let’s start giving up shit days.

So I head across the lush Fall-y looking courtyard and into our cafeteria for my fix. Wha? Might as well have been, it is. I even got a Keurig machine to no avail. It’s too big to leave my house, aye. I pass our inner café because like I said, either that girl gives me non-fat instead of soy, or that coffee—my body—is rejecting that coffee. I figure simpler is better. I go inside the cafeteria where they have the large black coffee juglike containers against the wall and you can put your own goodies in there. I opt for the straight black with 1/4 soy and one sugar. I waltz on over to pay.

Because it was only a quick break, I didn’t grab my purse from my office. I grabbed my wallet, and my cell. I had to grab a white to-go bag to put my sugar and stir stick and I might as well throw my phone and wallet in the baggie too. A tall familiar man stands behind me in line as I do this.

The line is growing down the walkway because the lady in front of me can’t find her wallet to pay for her salad or some other issue is happening but that’s the one I made up in my mind to justify how long her ass is taking to get out of my way somysleepyselfcangetthiscoffeeINme. I reach over for a napkin across the sliding tray table and knock-over-the-coffee-into nice guy’s pants.

O. My. Shit. The guy jumps back.

You can tell a lot about a person by how they react to certain things. The cliché examples are: tangled Christmas lights, forgettable waitresses, and spilled drinks.

Of course I apologized profusely—which I promised I wouldn’t overdo on this job, given my so pleasey-to-please nature. But this was different. The look of general—it’s ok shot back from his eyes. I’m pretty sure coffee had wet through this man’s pants legs, socks, and probably unmentionables. I scrambled to clean it all up. I heard sighs, shrieks, and an “o, how embarrassing” behind me. Just the look I was, going for, really.

The man (who if I weren’t extremely interested in the likes of someone else) I could’ve fallen in love with. His face was round, his features bold and warm, his striped blue and white tucked smartly in his Banana Republics, a dark brown belt, and I thought I saw glasses. He winks. Then he jokes.

“As long as you don’t try to clean it up” he says, as he steps back and I notice his bejewels are likely more soaked than I’d imagined. I was patting around the counter like a poor maid.

“I’m so so sooooo, so sorry,” The counter gal had disappeared to grab more towels. The coffee went unendingly drizzling down the sliding table, the sides, the floor, the creases and cracks. So glad for the 1/4 soy. It would’ve been hotter, usually.

There are few things I can hope for in this instance. Empathetic understanding, and that this all goes quick. The line is pretty long now.

Tail between legs—covering face I head back to the coffee station to make another round. I promptly scurry to the back of the now more than eight-person line. I figure, my anxiety would tell me I have to explain diarrhea to my boss or a three-car pile-up in the cafeteria—neither being the case. Having an awesomely unique prior work experience in which you have the most micro-managing impossibles overlooking you, will change the way you view everything else coming after that experience. I’d taken a few longer minutes than I should have. This made me more frazzled. I waited in line and when I got back to the front I calmly said,

“Two coffees please,”  blatantly holding up my one coffee.

“No, one,” The cafeteria lady smiles pity at me, and says

“It is ok, it happens to everyone.”

But no, no, it doesn’t. As I am walking back to my office, down the hallway I see Mr. Incredible (obviously returning from the bathroom) and I smile. It was a smile that hurt and I felt shame.

He gestured an it’s ok with hands pushing away the air with a sly smirk. Aw, my goodness. I LOVE THIS PLACE.

When I got back to the office, I sat at my desk with an I can’t believe that just happened face—staring at my now lukewarm coffee.

One of the ladies in my office passes and stares and asks if I’m ok. I love her too for the way she just read my face. Everyone is so—cognizant of their surroundings.

I shake my head “I just spilled my coffee all over this man in the cafeteria,” her eyes widen.

“O no,”

I leave out the fact that said man apparently works down the hall from us.

Soon, I think, I’m giving up coffee.

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