Sexurity guard’s name is Steve.
My name is psycho-chick-that-tries-to-break-into-the-Hearst-Tower. FML.
I’m been beating myself up for a while about this whole sexurity guard thing. The angelic (ha!) side of me figures that in real life, he won’t be anything like I would like him to be and he’s so much better to admire from afar. But then the devious little part of me says something along the lines of “Try it! What if he wants to take you for drinks! What is there to lose?”
What there is to lose is my dignity. Today, I was walking outside to get my boss her tall skinny vanilla latte, decaf, and I saw he was working the front. We caught eyes. I looked away and walked out. The entire time I was in Starbucks, I was talking myself into talking to him, praying that I had the guts, and daring myself to do it (I don’t say no to dares). So when I pushed through the revolving doors, I was a woman on a mission.
Unfortunately, I was so single-mindedly focused on him that I forgot to scan my security card, ran straight into and through the bars and basically tripped into him with my hand out saying, “Hi, I’m Marian.” Fail.
At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that I didn’t spill the latte on him.
He looked at me like I was insane (because obviously I’m a sociopath) and I said something like, “I’veseenyouaroundyou’reverysmileyIthoughtI’dsayhi.” And he said, “I’m Steve. Do you actually work here?” And to demonstrate, I went back to the gates and made my key open them. He said, “Nice to meet you, Marian.”
I was probably beet red (thank you, undiagnosed rosacea) and stumbled past him mumbling “Nice to meet you too, Steve.”
And ran up the escalator.
The good news is that since my internship is over in two weeks, I only have to hide my face for eight more days.
This, ladies and gents, is why I’m single.
|Let’s assume the blurry figure on the escalator is me.|