In Which I am Gainfully Employed

After much searching and tribulations, I have received the blessing of a real, grown-up job. A writing job, no less. I'm actually getting paid to write stuff. Pinch me; I must be dreaming.

The day I went to turn in real, grown-up paperwork for my real, grown-up, writing job, I adorned myself in a real, grown-up outfit of a cream blouse, navy pants, and a navy blazer. I felt very real and grown-up except for the fact that I had no shoes.

LITTLE SISTER: You look very business-y.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Thank you. I need to borrow some shoes from you. Where are your navy flats?

LITTLE SISTER: You can't wear navy pants and a navy blazer and navy shoes.

So instead of borrowing the navy flats, I tried on some tan flats. And some pewter flats. And some yellow flats.

Little Sister is younger than me, so you'd expect her to be shorter than me. That's what I expected. Never in my life did I ever dream that my scrawny little sister would someday be taller than me. But she is. In fact, she likes to call me Little Sister in public.

And when I say that she calls me Little Sister, I mean that she literally calls me the words, "Little Sister," and not her name. Because that would be bizarre. Even for Little Sister.

Anyways, since Little Sister is sadly taller than me, you would expect that her shoes would fit me with room to spare. But they didn't.

Now I was panicking. I could not show up to turn in real, grown-up paperwork without shoes. I ran to Mom's closet and visually scanned the footwear.

LITTLE SISTER: Look! Mom's leopard-print flats. Wear these.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You don't think they're too much?

LITTLE SISTER: I think they look good.

So with my personage clad in business navy and my feet shod in leopard print, I hied to Work City to turn in my employment paperwork.

'Twas but the work of a moment to bring in the paperwork I had filled out earlier that day. The actual act of filling out the paperwork had taken more than a moment, mostly because I could not remember my Social Security number.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (filling out paperwork earlier that day) Mom, what's my Social Security number?

MOM: At some point, you're going to have to have that memorized.

In the literary world, we call this foreshadowing.

I presented my completed paperwork to the company receptionist. Whereupon she gave me more paperwork and told me to go get a drug test.

Now, my mother is also taller than me. So you'd think her leopard-print shoes would be a little loose on me, if anything. You certainly wouldn't expect them to rub away painfully at the heels of my feet, but they did.

And normally I dislike walking around in high heels, but at that moment all I could think about was how my high heels were a million jillion times more comfortable and easier to walk in than those flats.

My life is just full of irony.

I found the drug test office and limped inside.

LAB TECHNICIAN: What's your Social Security number?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Um.

LAB TECHNICIAN: You're supposed to know your Social Security number!

In the literary world, we call this lampshading.

The drug test was taken. As I was heading out, the technician asked, "So is this your first job?"

"Well, no. But I just graduated from college, so it's my first real job," I said.

"You do not look old enough to be graduated from college," she said. "You look like you're twelve."

Feeling considerably less real and grown-up, I limped home to treat my blisters.