We Need to Sit Down


I was told this by a co-worker today.

We need to sit down and compile all the information in your brain.

Ah, ok.

Y’all planning on paying me for that?

Or are you all planning on suddenly becoming workaholic perfectionists?

As that is just about how I work.

I explained to Thomas last night, I go in, I am in a dither, I don’t know what I am doing, then I slowly (in my brain) figure it out, then I get better and better and better at the job.

Then, I do more.

And more.

And more.

Then I am suddenly doing the job of three people instead of one.

I am not sure how to not do this.  In an attempt to wean myself away from the constant mode of production, today, I slacked off.

Oh, I totally did everything that needed to be done.


Including a few things that some of my co-workers had not gotten around to take care of.  I did all my own work, and then some.  And then I had down time.

I Facecracked.

I texted.

I made an appointment to get my hair colored next week.  I had hoped to sneak it in before I go to the Florida blue hair convention next week, but no go.  Calvin got back to me and said, hey we’ll just add in a little more blue and you’ll be set and it won’t be as expensive as last time.

Not that it was horribly expensive, I am still on a fairly steep friends and family discount.

However, I am not going to stay with it blue.  It was fun playing Katy Perry for a hot second, but the blue fades out and as the hair underneath was bleached it fades to green.

Not so sexy.

At least not in my mind.

I am going blonde.

Not platinum blonde or bleach blonde or Madonna blonde.

Although that is tempting.

I figure I will just get some blonde highlights, rather like what I have already had in the past.  They certainly do not look natural, but neither does it look green.

I do not want green hair anymore.

I also do not want hair that when it is in its natural state, curly, looks like a clown car explosion on my head.  And last, but not least, I am not a person who styles their hair.

After many, many, many years of wishing I was, I still am not and I just cannot be bothered.  Pull it up, get it off my face, wash it dry it, let it go.  It looks pretty good mussed up and curly and wild and free, but not with loads of rainbow color.

Brown, gold, blonde, caramel.

Sexy, sun swept, maybe just a touch Californian.

I may be going to Paris, but I will certainly take some Nor-Cal with me.

It was challenging.  The sitting at work and not doing everyone else’s job.

How do people do it?

I am efficient, I am an efficiency machine.  I have a schedule, I stick to it, I do such and such and such at such and such time and then it is done.  Then I go hunt up some work.

Which is probably why my newest co-worker said what he said.

I had another co-worker who said, “you should write-up an employee manual.”


Where’s the money?

I mean honestly.

Writing an employee manual and shop girl do not go hand in hand.  I am either your manager, which I am so not, or I am your co-worker.

I am your co-worker.

Although, I would be happy to be your Parisian liaison.

I already envision people coming up to me and asking me where I got my bike.  There are a few Mission Bicycles in Paris, but not that many.  Whenever a French person walks into the store they are immediately enamored and ask all sorts of questions.

There is a distinct niche there for the bike we build.

I am thinking too, constantly, of what I will want to take to Paris in regards to bike gear.  I need a stand up pump with gauge, a rear fender, some tubes, a track stand, and  tire lever to change out flats.

I also should source a standardized list of vocabulary words for bicycle parts.

Another thought, somewhat out of left field, somewhat.

I do rather think I still want to attempt to get into the Sorbonne.

Yesterday in talking with my old friend over coffee I had mentioned that some thing I could do with a secondary degree is go after a PhD in Literature at Berkeley.  They do not have a Masters program in English Lit.

Doctor Martines.

My mom always did want me to be a doctor.

Granted, I think she meant medical doctor, but I would take a doctorate in English Literature.  I would, I would.

I would also be 85 by the time I do it, but then again, why the hell not.

Or I could see what is going on at the Sorbonne when I get there.

Lots to think about.

Thinking, though, is not always the best route for me.  Going where my heart is, that tends to work better.

I am going where I need to be.

I am going to where I want to be.

I do not know how long.  I do not know what I will do.

I will write.  I will walk.  I will go to market.  I will go to meet my fellows.  I will wander around museums.  I will get lost.

God, how I will get lost.

I swear I have getting lost down to an art.

You ever want to get lost, look me up, if you can find me.

I will be in some cafe writing the employee manual for Mission Bicycle.

Ah, probably not.

I will be wandering feckless down some cobble stone alleyway in Paris smelling the rain as it sluices through the gutters, looking at the chimney’s pressed into the iron-grey sky, seeing the bare tree branches silhouetted here, there, wire cut out patterns on the slate clouds.

We do not need to sit down.

We need to wander,

You and I.

Like Prufrock.

With our rolled pants fraying around the edges and our hearts in our throats.

Wandering along the Seine,

you and I,

to kiss under a bridge sheltered from the rain and laugh at each other caught with no umbrella and no map and no desire to be found.

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