First Day of the New Thing, Sort Of

September thirtieth. I want to state clearly that I had printed the schedule. I had printed it, put it on the kitchen table, poured the cold brew, and then, in a sequence of events I cannot fully reconstruct, the cold brew was on the schedule. Not near the schedule. On it. Soaking through the part that said which shifts I am now technically supervising.

I have been the person who said yes to the supervisor role for eleven days. I emailed my manager on a Thursday, I wrote about the moment after sending it, I noted that the apartment felt exactly the same as before I hit send. And it did. It does. Except this morning I apparently cannot operate a cup and a piece of paper in the same square foot of space, which feels like information. The schedule is now on the counter in a sad wet rectangle. Gerald's vine is still growing. The windowsill arrangement is still exactly where it was. Everything in this apartment is unchanged except my confidence in my own basic motor skills.

exhibit A: the schedule, post-incident

I stood there for a minute holding the wet paper towel and I thought about how the only thing worse than being nervous is being nervous about something you chose, because then you can't even be mad about it properly. I chose this. I emailed a three-line yes. I knew what I was doing. And the universe, or at least the kitchen, was like: noted, let's see. I reprinted the schedule. I drank the rest of the cold brew standing up. I put my boots on.

the windowsill, unbothered as always

First shift with the new title is next week. I am choosing to interpret this morning as the universe getting all the chaos out of the way early.