That’s not to say that being a writer and dealing with the world of publishing isn’t stressful. It is- But in that low key, long term way that usually leads to ulcers instead of flat out panic attacks.
In truth, I’d take an ulcer over anxiety freak-out any day. I could never be an ambulance driver, for example. Or any type of driver for that matter.
Apparently getting my driver’s license in France means I have to drive everywhere now. I’m what I like to call ‘directionally impaired’ and the tiny little swirvy French roads that are two lanes even though they should (logically, in width alone) be only one do nothing to help me overcome my handicap. Not to mention the angry drivers who honk if I take too long to search for a road sign.
I had my first rendez-vous with my new boss this week. I got lost. Called my husband up who informed me ‘he is not a human gps’ but was kind enough to look up where I was on the internet and help me find my way.
I was late. I couldn’t find a place to park. Of course. One way roads + tiny French cars that love to park bumper to bumper= never a fricking parking place anywhere. While traveling the wrong way down a one way street, I saw a spot. I had to back into it, over a small curb… at an angle. And my car kept sputtering out (welcome to the world of the clutch system).
Reverse (btw the steering wheel is manual so I’m moving the two front tires by brute strength alone while sweating like a pig)
Restart the car (start to hyperventilate)
Car dies. (people are starting to pile up, waiting for me to move my ass)
By this time I was feeling like one of those rabbits who have heart attacks from stress. Or those lizards whose tails fall off. In any case, I’m pretty sure once I managed to park, I left a part of my ass in the seat. I ran to the building, met my boss and we decided to walk together to the schools I’ll be working at this year.
As we pass by a car double parked in emergency parking space with the headlights, blinkers and windshield wipers still on she says “ what kind of an idiot parked here?”.
“Pfft.” I roll my eyes. “Tell me about it. Those French.”
A second look at the car in question and I realized it was mine.
What are your ‘never-no-way-in-hell’ jobs?