Tammy called while I was at work. She left this message:
“Lyndsey-baby, tell Seth I said ‘Hi.’ I need to talk to you. I’ll be at my aunt’s house around two if you want to pick me up. I’ll see you then.”
Her number showed up as “private” on my cell phone, so I couldn’t call her back when I got off work later that night. She hasn’t called since. So that’s it. No more of that crazy lady. Wasn’t that an anti-climactic ending? I’m so disappointed.
The bigger trauma out of all this is that very few people think what I did was a good idea. I have never heard the word “dumbass” so many times in my life. This is not at all what you want to hear when you are secretly looking for praise.
“Fearless leader risks life and limb help neighbor in trouble”
“Selfless child of God receives praise for good deed done”
“Profile of a Saint: Lyndsey Teter sparks choir of angels to dance in her honor.”
You know, that type of thing. Can’t you people take a hint?
I also made the mistake of slipping at dinner with the parents. I really would have preferred to just stop talking about it. This is not what happened. Try to get over it. They had the worst reaction of all. Even my mother, a born-again bleeding heart, glaringly dissaproved. Sadly, the good people at Some Amish Restaurant had to witness a breakdown in tears. Poor Waiter Anthony was so uncomfortable that he fed us some lie about the pies being ready in the bakery. “They are all available to take home now if you don’t want to stick around for desert,” he hinted. And we had just all spent a lovely day at the woodcarver’s house in Dover. It was really a good situation gone terribly bad.
The root of the problem, and why i’ve become so emotional lately, is that I don’t know what I want to be when i grow up. Several times since graduation I have packaged up the resume, cover letter and clips, only to take them out from the mailbox. I don’t think i want to be a reporter. But this is what I paid thousands of dollars to learn about, right?
I don’t want PR. I sure as hell don’t want advertising. I could go on down the list, but it would just prove how spoiled a brat i really am. Do i want to be a writer or a social worker? (I have no training in the latter, mind you.) It’s so frustrating. I hate having this burden in the pit of my stomach every day. I hate crying in restaurants. I hate crying at Shrek 2. I hate crying a few days later at the thought of Shrek 2. I hate how my brain keeps getting dumber and dumber with each passing month. I hate how much i love Starbucks. I hate the pressure I put on myself. Why can’t i just do whatever I do for the glory of god? Why does my career have to directly help the poor, widow and orphan? Can’t I adapt a lifestyle of that sort of philosophy and report local news during the day? (Insert Clark Kent joke here.) Why can’t I just send out a damn resume? I obviously don’t know how to help people in trouble…(rest of rant censored by author)
I have decided that God is trying to totally freak me out. You’re pushin me baby!
Bah! I’m going to go look for a career on the internet. I’ll be ok. Maybe if Killey McGee up there would give me a moments peace!
(Note to God: Please don’t really leave me alone. It was a reference to the Simpson’s. You know, satire. You invented it. Gotta go. XOXOX LT)
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