The Science of Selling Yourself Short

I made it through the rest of the grave-yard shift in a haze of strong coffee and peppermint sticks to keep me awake and on my feet. My entire body was literally buzzing from caffeine and lack of sleep when the clock finally struck 5. I almost felt like crying when Victoria and Agnes sauntered in to relieve me of counter duty.

After a few well-meaning comments about my health and appearance from the older women, I tossed my obnoxiously bright apron into the bin, clocked out and gingerly walked around to the side of the diner where I had chained my bicycle yesterday.

“Think of the money, just think of the extra money Gin,” I silently repeated to myself as I slung my exhausted body over my bike and forced my aching feet to peddle home.

Home for me was apartment 21B in a fairly well kept building close to the University of Berkeley campus. It was minuscule; one bedroom, one bath, and a kitchen-living room-dinning room combo. The price was fair though and it came with unlimited access to the complex’s pool, so I gladly moved in without complaint. It’s just mornings like this when my entire body was throbbing and worn down that I wish the building had a functioning elevator.

I collapsed into bed almost immediately after entering my tiny domicile and slept for what only felt like ten minutes before my alarm went off at 8AM, demanding shrilly that I get my ass up and to class. Yawning uncontrollably, I obeyed and collected myself for the day’s classes.

One would think that being a psychology major would have prevented me from operating on such an irresponsible sleep schedule. That I would know better. But I’ll be the first to admit that when it came to my health and mental well-being, I could be a bit lax in the upkeep.

On my behalf, at least I didn’t have to ride my sorry-ass bike to class. Luckily for me, I made friends with a graduate student that had a parking pass, and we carpooled to campus everyday as long as I bought lunch. It was a pretty sweet deal.

This morning Lucy pulled up to the complex five minutes later than her normally impeccable arrival time. And judging by her scowl and bedraggled appearance, her morning wasn’t going very well either. Her thick, unruly red hair was hidden under a black knit cap and her make-up looked half-assed and messy. I climbed into the passenger seat, about to ask my friend what was wrong, when she gasped at me.

“Shit, Virginia! Are you sick or something?” Lucy looked concerned as she carelessly swung the car into oncoming traffic. She drove like a maniac, but I was never late to any of my classes because of her.

“What do you mean?” I asked, flicking open the mirror on the sun visor to check my reflection. I thought I looked fine when I left my apartment.

“You look like hell, sugar,” was the reply tossed nonchalantly in my direction. If in her current state, Lucy thought I looked awful, it really must be bad.

Now that she mentioned it, I noticed that I was looking rather zombie-like lately. My ordinarily tanned skin was rapidly becoming pallid and sickly, while my eyes were incessantly bloodshot and sunken in large, purple bruises. I’ve seen better days for sure.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence as Lucy fumed internally at some unknown stressor and I obsessively started to try to pinpoint the exact moment when I began to fade.