There is something incredibly romantic about graveyards. When my one sister and I went to Ireland four years ago I had a fascination with looking at gravestones and walking among the remnants of those who lived before me.
There is something incredibly unromantic about working a graveyard shift in a deli. Especially when your workplace is so classy that the night crew's idea of witty humor is watching you pull a six-wheeler loaded with produce (broccoli, carrots, pineapple, cantalope, etc), and then remarking to you, "Nice melons."
Yeah.
Classy, I know.
I did not work the graveyard last night, but I was at work bright and early. I am, however, working that shift tonight. We have orders for 29 trays for tomorrow and so that is to be my job. For the most part I don't mind this. I get to work alone, can plug in my ipod, listen to some music and podcasts, and just disappear into my imagination.
The sad part about these shifts is perhaps their affect on any attractability I may possess. For a case in point, I will tell you about yesterday's shift.
I was supposed to start work at four-thirty in the morning. I awoke, my eyes opened, and it was light out. I knew instantly that something was wrong. My phone, which also serves as my alarm clock, apparently powered off in the night. It was 5:27. I was wee bit late for work. The one bonus of this? I became the closest thing to a superhero that I have ever been. I recall being upstairs, and then all of a sudden I was in the laundry room, which was downstairs, grabbing my uniform. I have no recollection of taking the stairs down, or up again. I was just there. So I either flew, or else I teleported. Adrenaline had nothing to do with it, I'm sure :) I somehow managed to make it to work by 5:38. I figure eleven minutes to get up and get ready and clock in is relatively impressive. Of course, this impressiveness fails to contribute to one's attractiveness. I went make-upless for the first five hours of my shift. Some people can do that and look beautiful. Me? I somewhat resemble a zombie. My eyes even take on a glazed look which lends itself beautifully to convincing one they are a member of the undead.
I have yet to meet a man who finds zombies attractive.
And so to combat this ever happening again, I have a night like last night. This means that I barely sleep. The result is that adrenaline... I mean my super hero abilities, kick in, but the result is usually that deeply shadowed, pale looking face.
The great question of my day? How is a zombie supposed to find true love? Why do the great novelists of our day and days long passed not delve into such an issue? What is a girl with a fascination of graveyards and a resemblance to the undead supposed to do?
Such is the life of a Christian single.
