Little Camper

My horoscope, says iVillage: "It would be easy to get depressed -- but don't let it happen. Things may be tough at the moment, but there's something wonderful coming up, and the weekend looks marvelous. Now buck up."

I have to picture the guy in Better off Dead: "Buck up, little camper."

It's true, though, because today and for part of last night, I tailspinned. I ran out of Corporate Outfit Combos and also dress socks. And I don't have any belts worth mentioning. And my sweaters make me feel frumpy, where last week, I got a little rise out of wearing my new picture ID badge on a string. I need to go shopping. I get paid Friday, and the magic of the Online System has allowed me to see what I'll be receiving. And it's a lot better--though for some reason I expected even more. Shouldn't it be more, for all the skits we're having to perform? That's right, perform. No one said anything about performing during the grueling interview process that spanned well over a month. They told us everything else that was going to be bad: it's going to be a high-stress job with much efficiency required, patience, and oh yeah some people skills. We'll see what I got, but until then it's training. Which means online classes, group projects, Q&A sessions involving a tossed beach ball, and skits. Horrid skits.

I'm not an improv girl. In front of an audience, I am Deer Girl in Headlights. And compared to a few years ago, say? I'm way better. I'm a walking ad for Xanax-influenced placidity. I can mostly handle things through breathing exercises and Dr. Phil-influenced self-talk. I am logical. My face remains a somewhat normal shade. Except. That. I. Can't. Improv.

And this only comes into play when you're in a really sucky group with a really sucky skit assignment and no one's paying attention on a sucky Wednesday morning. Also, I left the house without my wedding rings today. And the socks, have I mentioned the socks? I ran out of plausible options days ago. Tempers, namely will mine, flare.

So, I tell the Bossy, Know-it-All Girl with aspirations to one day be the trainer, rather than the trainee--to her I say, "Can we talk about the skit, now, please?" Rather than, for instance, whatever bossy, know-it-all lecture you happen to be giving our other group members? Because that has nothing to do with anything. And have I mentioned I'm not good at improv?

I am snappish and rude. But with relish.

I flub through it. I fake some lines. Meanwhile, this activity seems to phase no one else, and one boy even wins an Oscar for his hacking, beer-swilling great-aunt character. I am a deer. A doe. Doe, a dear.

I am corporate. I miss my Ivy Aspiring. My goal is to wear pajama pants, all day, every day.

But I will buck up, the little camper.