Days off of work are strange. Back home in Modesto, it's so easy to fill dead time. The city is small enough that you see someone you know almost anywhere you go, and if you're me you're forced to hide behind meticulously stacked cans of green beans and pretend to be absorbed in reading nutritional information, but you always know exactly where everything is and exactly what you want to do. Here, the options are endless, but so limited when you don't have friends and family and know the area like the back of your hand. The main evidence I find that we have a benevolent god is that He let iPhones with GPS be invented before I became a driver.
Besides my days off, which have been filled mainly with playing guitar, napping, and spending two hours trying to find the nearest Anthropologie in a 4 story mall, work has been excellent. The first day without a trainer was a little frightening; I spent the last hour of my shift outside at the greeter position, which usually consists of at least 3 people, completely alone. This was Sunday, the day before Labor Day. I was getting probably 150 people through the doors each minute, all while attempting to verify correct times on fastpasses being shoved in my face, hand out Flik cards to measure the wait time, check the heights of small children that parents were attempting to smuggle in by outfitting them with various eared hats, and keep everyone from breaking into mass mutiny. As one who suffers from abnormal amounts of anxiety, this was pretty much as bad as it gets. Luckily my lead came out right before a group of adults with a ridiculously high sense of entitlement demanded to use the elevator because one of them was "claustrophobic" and couldn't wait in the normal queue with everyone else. Maintaining a lovely smile, he explained to them the nature of the ride, which is that YOU ARE TRAPPED IN A SMALL BOX AND SHAKEN AROUND FOR 4 MINUTES. This didn't stop them from cussing him out, but they didn't get to use the elevator.
Other fun facts about my life:
I have one of the only jobs in the world where you get to wish someone a happy birthday between 50 and 400 times a day. These numbers are not exaggerated.
You cannot even BEGIN to comprehend the quantity of strollers at Disneyland until you have to park them all. Related: after thinking that all strollers had squirrely wheels that prevented them from being moved easily, found out that strollers have brakes.
Watching a Giants v. Dodgers game (in which the Giants SLAUGHTER THEM) with seven coworkers is a good way to ensure that seven of your coworkers hate your guts.
Rumor has it that cabin 4 in Star Tours is haunted because the old PeopleMover track runs through it and a little boy and girl died on it years ago. I take these things seriously, so I actually went home and googled this. The only people to ever die on the PeopleMover were 17 and 18 year old boys, both of whom were crushed while trying to jump from one vehicle to another. Figures.
I get approximately 6 people a day who tell me I should be a princess. This is far beyond pleasing.
I ran into my first Modestan a few days ago, Peter Stavrianoudaukis, an attorney and friend of my father's whom I have known since I was a little girl. He also was one of the judges when I did mock trial in high school. He ruled against me and granted the defense's motion to exclude evidence, which my teenage self was a little angsty about. Peter passed through the turnstile so quickly that I didn't have time to say hi. As he put it in a later text, "Definitely wasn't expecting a familiar face at a space station."
And finally, no drug can compare to the high you get when you load a full flight of 40 people. Every seat filled. That's when you know you've made it.
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