My sinusitis (say it out loud. Fun, is it not?) is in full swing, and my voice sounds 100%, certifiably, like a man’s. Which is totally the sexiest way for me to begin my Parisian exploits. Obviously. Everyone else gets to indulge in sensual raspiness when they get sick. Some people just get all the luck. I sound rather more like I’ve been pumped full of testosterone (by IV, maybe) and my voice box has undergone a growth spurt of gigantic proportion. A man, I tell you. Burly, necessarily hairy, and possibly rotund. Maybe a tranny if you pushed it, but certainly my voice is well clear of the sultry, “let me whisper in your ears and make your knees quiver” range. Hah. If only.
Donning my uniform was as dork-a-licious as anticipated. Complete with steel-toed protective clogs and a retarded little chef’s cap that looks like a WAY gentrified version of a beanie. Made of linen. Oh boy. I get to wear these glorious checked pants that are a) so high-waisted that they actually graze my bra. No, sadly that is not joke. b) extend so far over my kitchen- warrior shoes they give me troll feat, and c) And here’s the best part: They are actually made for a seriously built 6″5 man (morbidly obese is probably more realistic, considering the profession, but this is more fun in my mind if I imagine a horrendously overgrown spandex-sporting underwear model) and is made to fit me by pulling two velcro strips across what is supposed to be my waist but is actually my bra; they’re sort of competing for space. Imagine those life-saving plastic bags on airplanes where you have to tug the strings on the sides to activate them. You get the picture. I have velcro-activated pants. Joyous occasion! Oh, let me not forget to tell you about the apron and towel! I love it. I look like such a complete goober.
Hope that you are having too much fun to write me. But please write to me; I’m REALLY sad and stressed out.
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