Last week I was called to my second training day, (Adventures in Bookland) where the obligatory Health and Safety training had to be taught.
I was in the smaller store and the tone of this store was less of a general thoroughfare and more (as aforesaid) an oasis of scholarly calm. Charming.
Also there’s something about the larger store that makes me overly aware of how petite I am. I kept getting flashbacks to netball games as I managed to dunk the books up into the cleared spaces on the highest bookshelves with a combination of leaps, tiptoe stretches and strong upper-body action. (I got foot-cramp. It hurt.) This is ostensibly because it is a mission to find a kick-stool in a place as big as that. In the other store I would definitely have enough time to find a kick-stool without customers assembling en masse.
FYI they are all variously: lovely, patient, shy, bantery, well dressed, intelligent and ridiculously attractive.
At University without doubt, the library was the best location at which you could exercise your non verbal flirting skills. Not that we flirted hand fans or anything but no-one has any sophistication these days. I’m talking about apps relating to making your own ‘fire’. All steam no heat, People.
Now I just have to focus on adding to my general competence and looking 26. I also have ‘a much younger energy’ than my age I’m often told, which is my antidote to the sheer horror of suffering hallucinations in bipolar. There is a need, for the sake of my general mental well-being, to cultivate positivity in my life.
Life is about cultivating as many sources of joy as possible.
Therefore I’ve rather wryly dubbed my positivity: ‘The Pollyanna Effect’. I am a bright sider.
I’m probably doing just fine, and just feeling overly self conscious about being new and short. In fact, what am I worrying about? High shelves are not new in the general catalogue of short people problems.
In fact, this comes hand in hand with boosting yourself up onto counters to open kitchen windows. We have ridiculously good legs from running after tall people (who are merely walking) and also good reflexes from crossing the street and managing to live.
What I’m trying to say is, even without meaning to, we work out a lot, are therefore hot and ergo, eminently date-able. We’re practically superheroes.
(It’s exhausting. Cuddle us. But wait until we offer the least resistance.)
I have a silly pride thing of not asking my co-workers too much to help me get books off high shelves. Most guys love doing this for me, but it makes me feel awkward and damsel-ish.
Tell me if I’m being stupid.
~ Pola ~