Fidget

July 6, 2011

I was never scared to go to school. I remember very distinctly my mother telling me to not fidget in class, to remain very quiet and still, and always listen to my teacher. Given how antsy I was as a five year old, she started prepping me months before that fateful September.

And this is not the cool month of September, nor is it school. This is July, it is bloody hot outside, and I sweat badly enough, let alone deal with the first day nerves that are associated with a new job.

I quit my previous job as a barista, traded it in for a pay cut and hopefully fantastic experiences at a bakery in the next town over.

Her website is fantastic. Drool.

The family owned business is everything I love: high values, high quality, highly local, very small. I don’t want to lose this opportunity. I feel more nervous coming to this job that I have in a long time.

I bake for friends and family all the time. I get high praise. This is totally different. I’m walking into a bakery that prides itself on making high quality, artisan European breads, pastries, and cakes–and lots of them. This is what I said I wanted to do. I still do. But I never thought of how gut-wrenching the idea would be on my first day.

In my interview with the owner of the bakery, she told me, “Impress me. I want to see what you can do.” I’m afraid all I can do right now is pace, bite my fingernails, drink coffee, and fidget with my purse, making sure I have everything I need in there. And so I’m five again. Nothing has changed. Still fidget.

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