Model Employee

Any other morning I would have gotten up late, hastily glanced in the mirror to decide if my hair was greasy enough to necessitate a washing, thrown on jeans and a top and strolled out the door. Seriously, when the only people you see all day are the mailman and the janitor, your work wardrobe tends to suffer. But this morning was different. This morning I not only washed my hair, I actually took a styling implement to it and attempted to straighten it into some semblance of a style. My outfit, and yes today my attire can genuinely be referred to as an "outfit," I selected with careful regard, complete with the heeled shoes I reserve for occasions of significant merit, like both times I've dined at a restaurant where the tables didn't have vinyl clothes and paper napkins.

Why, you ask, am I making such an effort this morning? Well today, my job is not about filing papers or answering phones or pretending to be concerned about the inventory tragedies of complete morons. No, today my job is even worse for my self-esteem because today I will be interviewing spokesmodels. Yes folks, I, in all my 5 feet five inches of round-bottomed glory, will spend the afternoon with impossibly tall, thin, beautiful women, trying to remain professional while secretly dreaming of stabbing them in the eye. Now you understand why I spent 15 minutes this morning cursing my closet for it's lack of vertical stripes. And what am I supposed to talk to them about? I'm just sure I have sooo much in common with these emaciated giraffes, seeing as how my life revolves around food and these girls wouldn't get within spitting distance of a piece of bread or they might go into carbohydrate shock, makes you want to eat a bag of Oreos right in front of them.

So, hear I sit, regretting last night's dinner...and the dessert....oh, and the other dessert, just waiting for the skeleton procession to make it's way through my office so I can smilingly write hateful comments about all of them and attempt to repair my wounded ego by imagining them all getting extremely fat once they go through rehab in five years. I guess it could be worse...I could have jeans that didn't allow me to sit and breath at the same time- thank God for Lycra, right?

One day their breasts will sag, their cellulite will show, they will be too old to dance on bars and then what will they do? Having already conquered my fear of cellulite, I can live happily in the knowledge that I will always have a Sweetpotato at home and a cupcake in the fridge;-)