Today has been one of those (increasingly regular) days where I’ve spent a disproportionate amount of time wishing to myself that I’d woken up as Taylor Swift.
I apologise now for what has turned out to be a very intense reaction to my new experiences in the world of temping. I’m just getting it out in one giant post and then I will disappear again, like a bored, over-qualified, borderline-insane whale, surfacing for air in a flurry of words, before slipping back into the eternal waters of lost career paths and incessant clock-watching.
Today I woke up before my alarm, as I always do, clutching my pillow like it was a rescued seal club, not remembering my own name, with slightly erratic breathing, wondering how it is that every day I go to bed with socks on and wake up with them off.
For a minute I lay in bed, half-consciously groping around with my toes trying to find my socks at the bottom of the bed and in doing so felt very strongly that my legs had grown a bit longer. That was the catalyst. I was thrown legs first into a thirty-second long, horizontal fantasy that my calves had indeed lengthened, my hair had glossed overnight and my entire being had transformed. I hadn’t woken up as Emma. I had woken up as Taylor!
Any minute my tall, beautiful friends were going to leap in like showbiz gazelles and bring me breakfast in bed. I would have cats that love me. And Instagram. And nine billboard awards. And the ability to pull off lipstick!
And then I remembered that Taylor Swift is not in Clapham Junction.
She is on her world tour.
And I am not on my world tour. I am about as far away from a world tour as I am from bleeding ice cream.
I am in bed, beginning to remember a strange dream involving a slug. And cornflakes. And the reason why I don’t eat before bed. Because it gives me nightmares and unrealistic expectations when I wake up.
Somewhere in the distance I heard a mutilated pigeon chirping its city anthem.
I remembered it’s Wednesday. And that I need to get up to go to work because if I don’t…well, the world will just keep on turning anyway, but not quite as much filing would be accomplished.
(Later in the day I discovered that if I’d bailed on reality and not gone into work I would never have discovered that companies exist in this city where the most exciting article on their intranet is entitled ‘8 brilliant insights into the power of interactive whiteboards’.
And I might actually still enjoy life.)
I found one of my socks on the floor and picked it up whilst trying not to spill my cup of tea in this mug because I need as much help as I can get:
And on getting to my feet I caught sight of myself in my bedroom mirror.
Definitely not Taylor Swift. More like a cross between an orangutan that’s just escaped a centre for medical experiments but hasn’t quite adjusted to reality yet and so doesn’t make eye-contact, generally looking a bit odd, and a kind of stretched and distorted version of Humpty Dumpty, after he fell off the wall, with no Kings Men to help pick up the pieces of the broken reality that is Wednesday morning.
I legged it out the door, tripping over my imaginary cats on the way out, checking my imaginary Instagram, calling my imaginary Cara Delevingne, and made it into today’s temp job just about on time. Sitting down at my desk I couldn’t help but compare.
I doubt Taylor got distracted and did a bit too much Google browsing, consequently spending the remainder of her afternoon trying to delete from her work history the Guardian article ‘Poo: we’re doing it all wrong.’ I doubt Taylor choked on a blueberry. I doubt Taylor put two contact lenses in one eye, burnt her tongue, bit her cheek and nearly wee-ed herself on an over-ambitious run. I doubt Taylor was mistakenly called Enema at work.
I’m not feeling very 22. I’m feeling very 24, nearly 25 and not all that suited to this temping malarkey. This is the fifth day in a row I’ve reached my maximum level of disappointment before 9am. For God’s sake come 3pm I even started thinking about getting an interactive whiteboard, hoping it would give me some answers. Yes, I may have to find another way. I’m not saying I really need to be Taylor. I’m actually more of a dog person anyway. But it would be nice to have a little clue as to where all this is leading. And to not think about whiteboards for a while. And for no one to ever call me Enema again.
Until next time. Muchos besos xx