I'm a spaz

At least at "work" I am. That is the first official reference to my new job as work. This doesn't mean that I have settled in and feel like one of the gang. Not yet. I'm still the new guy, and I'm sure that I'm still the odd new guy.

Because I'm a spaz. It's just my nature, especially when I start something new. I'm on edge. My nerves are raw. My senses are heightened. All of this manifests in quirkiness and clumsiness.

I jump, visibly, when I run into people unexpectedly, especially at corners and when entering the washroom. So I approach these potential embarassment zones cautiously, slowly, which probably makes me look like a freak. I open the bathroom door a crack and look in. Casual observers, of which I'm sure there are many (because my surreptitious bathroom entry probably draws a lot of attention), probably think I'm a freak. I can't argue. If I run into someone who is leaving the washroom, I jump a couple of feet into the air. Freaky!

And I'm clumsy. As I've written before, there are too many purveyors of tasty frozen blended coffee beverages in the vicinity, so I usually get one when I go for my lunch time walk. (Who am I kidding? The beverage negates the walk. But it's my delusion, and I like it.) When I'm finished, I take the empty drink container to the coffee room, where I rinse it out before throwing it away. I know...the eco-horror! The reason why I rinse it out is because I don't want dirty garbage going into the garbage. And the reason why I take it to the lunch room is because I figure that that garbage gets thrown out more often than the garbage can at my desk. Therefore, less dirty stinky garbage.

However, last week, when I was doing my compulsive good duty and rinsing out my drink, the straw gleefully leapt out of the cup and swirled down the drain. Even though it was in dream-like (or nightmarish) slow motion, I could not catch it before it was gone. After a few seconds of "shit, shit, shit" thinking, I realized that I had no choice but to fess up. So I went to the office manager, who followed me back with her extra-long tweezers and a positive attitude. When we looked under the sink and saw that the downpipe was over a foot long, we realized that I was screwed. She made the executive decision that the straw could stay because this was the coffee room sink, and that only liquids enter the drain. Unsure of the decision, but relieved that I had confessed, I went back to my desk.

The next day, the Roto-Rooter guy stopped by. I didn't see him come upstairs, but I also couldn't deny that his visit was mighty timely. No one asked me to foot the bill.

So if you want to know how the job is going, the answer is: I'm a spaz, but perhaps a lucky one.